


If I Had A Voice

by agggron



Category: Spartacus: Blood and Sand, Spartacus: Vengeance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-21
Updated: 2012-04-25
Packaged: 2017-11-02 07:28:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agggron/pseuds/agggron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. A celebration at the house of Batiatus brings together an unlikely pair: one of the lanista’s gladiators and an esteemed guest’s body slave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The house of Batiatus hummed with activity. Slaves moved throughout bearing plates of exotic fruits, prepared meats, soft cheeses. In some hands were jugs of the finest wines, exquisite and imported from Rome herself. No expense was spared. This was going to be a party not soon forgotten.

And there would be more there for the guests than delicious food. Musicians and dancers were standing by, but the main event - the one everyone was there for - was when Batiatus would put his gladiators on display. They stood in a hidden corridor, absent chains or armor, and slaves attended each of them, pouring onto their skin fine, scented oil that would make them glisten. And to demonstrate the riches of the house of Batiatus, the gladiators were adorned with gold leaf, the stuff scattered across their shoulders and chest and down over their abdomens. Even in the low light, they shone like gods, and whispers of their beauty would travel far and wide.

Most would attend to see Capua's champion. The Bringer of Rain himself stood among the other gladiators, silent as he waited for the party to begin. Others were not so stoic; Agron was looking down at his own body, lifting a hand to push at a speck of the gold on his chest. "The Roman shits demand fucking show," he complained, "even outside of the arena."

The comment drew a wry smile from the champion. "They love nothing more than blood," he said, "though to see gladiators tamed and on display comes second." Spartacus turned to look at Agron, both eyebrows raised. "Expect their hands on you. One last touch before you are slaughtered upon the sands."

The German scoffed. That was one thing he would never be - slaughtered upon the sands. He hadn't died yet; every trip he'd taken to the arena had ended in victory, his opponent's blood on his hands and blade. Every trip had ended in the crowd screaming his name, stomping their feet to match the beating of his heart in his ears. He'd had a taste of the glory of the arena and he wouldn't soon tire of it, and that meant surviving. A thing he'd discovered himself quite good at, next to killing.

"If they expect to see me die, they will find themselves disappointed," Agron said, tone determined, and at that, Spartacus grinned.

Doctore's voice sounded from further down the corridor. "Hold your tongues," he said sharply. "You do not speak. You only stand as statues." At those words, all fell silent. They could hear a swelling of voices and music within the villa, and that could mean only one thing: the guests had arrived and the party had begun. It wasn't long before one voice rose above the rest to announce the arrival of the gladiators, news that was met with applause and sounds of wonder from the crowd.

So the gladiators stepped from the corridor and into the main room of the villa, and a hush fell over the guests. The lamplight made the gold flecked on their skin glitter, every movement making them shimmer as if from some other world. Not a single eye was turned from them, not for a long moment. The silence was only broken when a woman who looked quite overcome began applauding again, encouraging the rest to join in and begin speaking once more.

Many people milled about them, some stopping to admire and praise the bodies made spectacle. And as Spartacus had warned, some reached out and touched. Agron was intent on keeping his eyes forward and his mouth shut, though he found it difficult to do, because not all of the touches were innocent ones. Some explored his stomach and the sensitive expanse of skin just above where his subligaria began - but he was not aroused by this attention. No, nothing disgusted him more than soft Roman hands upon his skin. Hands that could wave and see him taken from this world, because to them, he was nothing more than a toy. At least in the arena there was glory to be had. A spectacle of _blood_ , something he and his kin were well-versed in. This was different.

Batiatus himself was leading a Roman man down the line, stopping at each gladiator to exchange words about them with what was surely an esteemed guest. Soon, they stopped at Agron, and the Roman looked at him with some interest. "Ah," he said, eyes sweeping over Agron's body. "One of your newer acquisitions, yes? I recall seeing him in the arena. A bloodthirsty animal."

Batiatus grinned and clapped the man on the shoulder. "He shows much promise! A gladiator yet undefeated in the few matches he has fought."

The Roman's eyes weighed heavily on Agron. He felt caged by them. Trapped. The German shifted slightly, his gaze faltering in its stillness - but where it fell was not upon the one that scrutinized him. Instead, he found himself looking at a man that stood close behind the Roman. Dark eyes lifted to meet Agron's blue ones, and their gazes lingering for only seconds before the gladiator's attention was demanded elsewhere. "Where does this animal come from?" the esteemed guest asked Batiatus.

The lanista was quick to reply. "A German," Batiatus said, and did very well at feigning interest. "From a tribe East of the Rhine."

That Batiatus and the Roman were spending far more time in front of Agron than the rest of the gladiators was a thing quickly noticed by the German. He wanted nothing of this Roman's interest. He prayed to the gods that it was a fleeting thing, because much longer beneath such scrutiny would have him crawling out of his skin. Especially with the way the Roman's voice dripped with something dark and suggestive. "The savage is a fine specimen," he said. The man reached out brushed the backs of his fingers over one of Agron's arms, dragging tiny pieces of gold along the touch. "I wonder," he mused aloud. "Do the gladiators often sate their desire for flesh?"

Agron wanted to draw away from the touch but he recalled Doctore's words and stilled himself. He was a statue. If only he were made of unfeeling stone; then the Roman's hand would have no effect on him.

Though the man seemed to have endless questions, Batiatus was there with an answer to each of them. "When there is cause for celebration, they are allowed…" He trailed off, searching for the word. "…indulgence in drink and the company of women." Seeing the Roman's hand trailing over Agron's bicep, he added, "Or men, should they prefer." How good the lanista was at playing to his audience.

"Good Batiatus," the man said, turning his head toward the lanista, though his eyes remained fixed on Agron. "I would see him divested of his clothing." He paused, and Agron could see out of the corner of his eye that his lips were curled in a smile. "Naked as a savage should be."

Agron glanced to his dominus. Batiatus' eyes met the gladiator's and he nodded. That in itself was an order to do as the Roman requested, but when Agron didn't move right away, the lanista spoke. "Remove your subligaria." The words were said with finality; even if Agron had the gall to further question what was demanded of him, there was nothing he could do to stop it happening. He had to do the will of his dominus, and at that moment, the will of his dominus was to please this Roman shit.

Teeth clenched, Agron lifted his hands to undo his subligaria and let it slip from his body - but before he could get too far, the Roman lifted a hand. "Wait," he said. The fingers of the hand that had lifted curled, gestured. "Tiberius," the Roman ordered. "Come forward. Strip the gladiator of dress."

Confusion showed itself briefly when Agron's brows drew together. Tiberius? Who was—

But then he remembered. He'd forgotten those dark eyes, although the moment he recalled them he wondered how they could have slipped his mind. Disquiet at the hands of this Roman proved too great a distraction. Now that Agron had been reminded, though, he searched for those eyes again and found they were dark to match the rest of the man. Skin and hair were shades not found in Rome, nor found in Germania. This was a slave - a fact revealed by the collar around his neck - from lands far away. Syria, perhaps.

Tiberius stepped forward, quick to do his master's bidding. There was a fleeting moment, though, in which Agron thought he saw the slave's gaze flutter up to the gladiator's own, almost as if he wanted to ask permission for what he had to do. Agron was surprised to find that he would have given that permission, had he any say in it at all. This was what needed to be done. And there was something sort of sweet in the uncertainty those dark eyes had held.

The subligaria slid from Agron's body and left him naked at the hands of the slave. It was a fate preferred to being undressed by the Roman himself, to be sure; Tiberius's touch had been gentler than his master's, less predatory, and in it had been a warmth all its own. Despite the gladiator's charge to be still, statuesque, he couldn't help but let his eyes follow Tiberius as the slave stepped back and disappeared behind his master. It mattered not, because the Roman's attention had turned to the flesh that had been revealed; he would remain unaware of any long glances exchanged between the two.

After a short silence, the Roman spoke yet again. How demanding he was. How needy. How much he asked of Batiatus and his gladiators. "I would see flesh awakened," came his words, so very casual in their delivery, as if what he asked was commonplace. Agron's eyes flew to the man, and in that sweeping saw that the display had drawn a small crowd. So many witnesses to something so lewd. But Spartacus had warned him; their desire for this, for gladiators tamed by the invisible shackles of slavery and made to do everything asked of them, came only second to their desire for the blood of the same gladiators to rain down on the sands of the arena. "Tiberius," the man called again, and this time no order followed. It was obvious what was being asked of the Syrian.

Again, Tiberius stepped forward. When Agron looked down at the smaller man, he saw that those dark cheeks were reddened and no doubt, were he able to reach out and touch, that skin would have been hot beneath his fingers. But he was a statue, he reminded himself. Made of marble but flesh where he needed to be. Agron's gaze shifted forward, away from the slave that stood at his side if only to make sure none of the show was blocked from view, and looked at nothing. But he could still _feel_. There was Tiberius's touch, and the moment Agron had gone without it hadn't cooled it or made it harsher. Gentle and warm still, though it didn't fall where the gladiator had expected it to. No, those fingers were brushing over his lower stomach, making his muscles jump beneath them - and it was a moment before Agron realized what the slave was doing. There was yet that scented oil on his skin and Tiberius was sliding his hand through it, coating the fingers that would soon coax Agron's flesh to life.

Slowly, that hand lowered. Slowly, those fingers wrapped around Agron's length. Slowly, they began to stroke him. The gladiator wanted to be defiant; he wanted to will his body not to respond if only to deprive the Romans of their show but it was impossible. His body stirred, heart racing and blood rushing to awaken flesh, just as requested. "How quickly he hardens," came the Roman man's voice, pleased as it was. There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd that had gathered. "Do you enjoy my slave's hand on you, gladiator?"

At first, Agron didn't know he'd been addressed. Then the words that had seemed so distant in the wake of the pleasure coursing through his body repeated in his mind, and his gaze focused on the Roman. It flitted over to Batiatus, who nodded, and Agron parted his lips to speak - though it was difficult to find his voice, especially with Tiberius's hand still pumping. "Yes," he answered, and he hated the truth revealed in the breathless reply. He hated that anything given to him by a Roman would feel this good.

Another question was asked. "Given permission," the man began, "would you touch him? Taste his lips?"

Agron looked to Batiatus again, and again there was a nod. "Yes," he said, pulse quickening to a breakneck speed. And then came the words he was either dreading or hoping for - which, he couldn't decide.

"Do it."

The gladiator turned toward Tiberius. The slave's gaze didn't lift to meet his; it remained level and looked past him. Reaching out, Agron tentatively brushed his fingertips over the man's arm, his touch traveling slowly upwards: over Tiberius's forearm, his elbow, his upper arm, his neck. There, that had pulled a reaction from him; the moment Agron's fingers had reached the sensitive skin of his throat, the gladiator had seen the man's dark eyelashes flutter. Agron wrapped his hand around the back of Tiberius's neck and gently coaxed the man to tilt his head back, and only after their eyes met once more - this time Agron asking permission, though it wasn't his place to do so - did the gladiator lean down and close the distance between them, pressing their lips together in a kiss.

Initially, there was no response. No reaction from either of them. And then Tiberius's mouth moved. It was the smallest movement, scarcely there; his lips parted only slightly, but that was all Agron needed. He pushed into the kiss, deepened it, coaxed the slave's tongue to touch his own. He was overcome by pleasure in that moment; the hand wrapped around his length hadn't been idle and he'd missed the taste of another man's lips and he almost forgot that he was performing for an audience. Agron's fingers slid into the slave's dark hair, his palm cupping the back of his head and holding it there for the kiss. And gods, if there wasn't something between them in that moment. Something beyond what they had been forced to do. Something beyond the physical. In that moment, Agron felt in his heart something he never had before.

But it was something he could never have. Not from this body slave. Not from Tiberius, whose skin was too dark for such a fair Roman name.

Agron broke away from the kiss, though his mouth was still pressed against the slave's. A shaking, breathless moan escaped him. It was a warning; he'd find his release soon if that hand didn't let up. His hips were pumping of their own accord, thrusting to find the fingers wrapped tightly around hard flesh. Following the cue perfectly, Tiberius slowed his stroking, squeezed at the base of Agron's length to stave off his peak. To Agron's surprise, a gentle and soothing touch smoothed its way down his back; it was Tiberius's free hand, urging him to be calm, to hold off, to wait - because the show would have to go on for as long as the audience wanted them to perform.

Relief came soon. "You may finish," the Roman man said, his voice thick with arousal. But Agron didn't hear it; he only knew permission had been granted because Tiberius's stroking began again. The hand at Agron's back slid lower, followed the curve of it only to travel up again, this time dragging nails over the gladiator's slick skin. The things they would have done to one another, had they not been so restricted - Tiberius by the collar around his neck and Agron by the brand on his forearm.

The gladiator held Tiberius's face and claimed his lips in one last kiss. It was desperate; its purpose was only to taste as much as he could until it was taken away from him. And into that kiss, Agron gasped and moaned his pleasure, the noises halting and broken and there was one small part of him not lost in a haze of pleasure that meant for the sounds to be for Tiberius's ears. They were for the slave. Not his master.

And when Agron's release hit him, his head was bowed and his face was hidden against the hollow beneath the other man's jaw. The gladiator's golden body trembled and twitched and gave those watching everything they wanted, but the expression of pleasure had been seen by none and felt only by Tiberius.

It was applause that pulled Agron away from the other man, though he was reluctant in doing so. Briefly, he let his lips slide over the slave's in a secret and chaste kiss, so soft that it might not have happened at all, and with that, they were parted. Slowly, the gladiator straightened his body, though his chest still heaved with breath he had yet to catch. Tiberius's touch was gone and soon so was the slave from his side, and Agron mourned the absence of that warmth. The Roman man, the one that had asked all this of Agron, was looking on him with a pleased grin. "Good Batiatus," he said. "I am impressed." Agron cared nothing about whether or not the man was happy with the performance. It was a role he'd never wanted to play - but he'd forgotten his defiance in the act. Tiberius had stolen it from him.

Yet another nod from the lanista and Agron bent, picking up the subligaria at his feet and putting it back on. Were it not for the floor before him being stained with evidence of his release, it might have looked as though nothing had happened. Though there was one last thing that might have given it away. As Batiatus and his Roman walked away, Tiberius trailed behind, and Agron's eyes followed him, and he saw that on the slave's dark skin were flecks of gold.

Tiberius was almost out of sight. Agron's gaze had never left the other man, but not once had the slave glanced toward him. The gladiator found himself praying or perhaps begging in his mind. _Look at me_ , were the words of his prayer. _One last time_.

Dark eyes lifted. They wandered at first but soon found their way to the ones searching for them.

And then they were gone.


	2. Chapter 2

There was a ringing in Agron's ears. It was high-pitched and loud and made his head ache. When he opened his eyes, he was momentarily blinded by the sun high above, but a shadow soon blocked it. Just in time, Agron realized that shadow was a spiked mace swinging through the air; he rolled quickly to the side and there was a muted _thump_ as the head of the mace sank into the sand.

Agron suddenly remembered where he was. He could taste blood in his mouth, could feel the leather straps of his armor digging into his skin and the weight of his sword clutched in his fingers. The ringing in his ears dulled, slowly disappeared only to be replaced with the roaring of the crowd. And as his senses returned to him after the blow he'd suffered at the hands of the other gladiator, so did the adrenaline. Through his veins ran the thrill of the fight and the surging of the crowd and the need for victory. The need to survive.

The gladiator he was facing - a Numidian that stood a foot taller than him and swung his mace with terrifying strength - had dislodged his weapon from the sand and was coming at him again. Agron lifted his shield arm to pull down the visor of his helmet - but he was shocked to find that his helmet was gone. A glance toward the ground and he located it; the thing must have been knocked from his head when he'd been attacked. Now he was vulnerable and there was no way he'd be able to endure another blow like the one that had grounded him.

The spectators screamed for blood. Agron spit out a mouthful onto the sand, but it wasn't enough. They wanted to see limb hewn from body. They wanted to see bones crushed and insides spilling from a split belly. It would not be Agron's body dragged dead from the arena that day. This he decided in the moment the Numidian ran at him, mace singing through the air. Agron lifted his shield and blocked the attack; had he not angled it correctly, the swing would have broken his arm. Instead, the mace slid along the shield and did no damage, and this left the Numidian open to a strike from Agron's blade. The gladius glinted in the sunlight, silver and then red with blood. The Numidian's chest was sliced open, though not deep enough for death. It was not the only injury he suffered. Agron moved past the other gladiator's body, turned so he was facing the back of him, and drew his blade across the back of the man's legs. The Numidian screamed and fell to his knees.

There was an audible reaction from the spectators. Agron, ignited by their voices, threw off his shield and lifted both arms, encouraging their roaring demand for violence, for death. He extended his gladius, sweeping the point of it across the crowd before him, turning until he tip of the sword aimed directly at the kneeling Numidian. Slowly, Agron began to walk around him in a circle that got smaller with every step. And as he walked, the crowd began to chant with his footfalls. ' _Agron_ ,' they started in a whisper. And then louder. ' _Agron. Agron. Agron!_ ' They began to scream for the kill, begging for it, and Agron would give it to them. Now standing behind the Numidian, Agron lifted his sword and pressed the point of it against the back of the other gladiator's neck, ready to drive it through. His arm tensed and he gathered his strength - but then slowly, slowly, the Numidian raised his hand, the mace abandoned next to him. Two fingers rose into the air in surrender and a plea for mercy.

The crowd hissed. They had come to see a slaughter. Agron bared his bloody teeth in a growl and pulled back his arm, prepared to ignore the gesture and take off his head - but a hush came over the arena as a man in the pulvinus stood. Agron didn't know who the man was; some dignitary that had the privilege of deciding who lived and who died upon these sands. Agron's gaze lifted as the Roman extended his hand. Would he take pity on the Numidian? Or would he give those watching exactly what they'd come for: to be witness to a man's life fleeing his body?

All voices rose in celebration when the signal for death was given. All waited for that killing blow. But something had stayed Agron's hand. In waiting for the dignitary to make his decision, the gladiator's gaze had shifted and had fallen upon another man in the pulvinus. A man who stood behind the rest, hands wrapped around the handle of a clay jar ready to fill the cups of those who sat on cushioned seats. A man whose dark eyes were fixed not on the man about to die, not on the sword poised to make that lethal stroke, but on Agron.

The gladiator was no longer in the arena. He was in the house of Batiatus and an gentle touch slid over his skin. There was no sword in his hand but soft hair; there was no taste of blood in his mouth but the taste of a sweet kiss. He wasn't covered in sweat and sand but in scented oil and flecks of gold.

But reality came rushing back to him with a shrill scream of, ' _Kill him!_ ' from the crowd. Agron tore his gaze away from the pulvinus and looked at the Numidian waiting to die before him. Clenching his jaw and tightening his fingers around the hilt of his sword, Agron thrust it into the back of the man's neck and through the front of it before ripping the blade upwards and nearly cleaving the other gladiator's head in two. The spectators had finally gotten what they wanted; the Numidian's lifeless body fell forward, Agron's sword still embedded in his skull. The gladiator stepped away from the corpse, taking a long and shaking breath as his eyes flitted back to the pulvinus and the slave that still stared at him.

The audience chanted his name again. He should have been basking in the attention, in the glory he'd just secured himself, but he heard none of it. Instead, he was lost in that gaze, the one he never thought he'd see again, and had he a voice loud enough to cut through the roaring crowd, he might have called out. _Tiberius._

* * *

Agron had walked this path only a few times before. One of the slave girls unlocked the gate that separated the gladiators from polite society, led him up wooden stairs and into the main villa. Everything was cleaner up there. Shining and full of light and life, so very different from the blood and dirt that coated every inch of the ludus itself. Agron felt out of place. He'd cleaned himself since his fight the day before but still there was this layer of uncleanliness and this air of savagery that didn't belong within rooms so pristine.

He didn't know why he'd been summoned. He worried for the reason; had he not performed well enough in the arena? The crowd had loved him. He'd felt their admiration as he stood upon the sand, despite the fact that he'd cared nothing for it. Perhaps that was the problem; perhaps the lanista had noticed Agron's eyes lingering on the Syrian slave that stood in the pulvinus. Perhaps Batiatus would punish him for not paying enough attention to his admiring fans.

Whatever the reason, it would make itself known soon enough. The slave gestured to an archway and Agron walked through it, his steps careful. His gaze wandered until it found the lanista, who lay lounging on a cushioned couch. But not for long. Soon the man was on his feet and approaching Agron with open arms. Batiatus lifted his voice in the silence. "Agron!" he said pleasantly. "Returned victorious from the arena!" With a smile, the lanista grasped the gladiator on both shoulders in a surprising gesture of affection. Agron stood still in the wake of such attention but felt an unsure smile coming to his face.

As quickly as Batiatus had approached, so he retreated, but only to take up a jug of wine from a nearby table and pour some into two clay cups. The lanista took one for himself and extended the other to Agron. Surely the gladiator had misjudged the reason for his being summoned. It couldn't have been often that Batiatus offered wine to a man about to be condemned.

"What a show that was," Batiatus continued with relish and in the wake of Agron's silence. The gladiator felt no need to speak, at least not yet, but not a single beat was missed by the other man. No doubt he could fill any silence. "That blow to the head would have killed lesser men," Batiatus declared, "but those from Germania are made of fucking steel."

Batiatus raised his cup and drank deeply from it, and it was only after the lanista eyed the same cup in Agron's hand that the gladiator, too, took a halting sip. And at that sip, both of his eyebrows shot up. If that wasn't the sweetest thing he'd ever tasted. This wasn't the piss the gladiators drank from wine skins when they were allowed a celebration, that was certain. "Good, is it not?" Batiatus said, as if reading Agron's thoughts. "Imported from Rome herself. Cost more than what I paid for you and your brother combined." The lanista drained the last of his wine with a satisfied sigh. "Though you are worth more to me now with your victories in the arena. Continue on this path and find yourself bathing in wine like this."

The German couldn't stop the grin from coming to his face at such praise. He lifted his cup in a salute to his dominus and then, too, drank the rest of the wine. Batiatus clapped him on the back of one shoulder and then, with gentle urging, began walking with the gladiator. "Spartacus spoke highly of you," the lanista revealed as they traveled through the villa. It was an aimless walk with no real destination. "He told me that of all the gladiators, you had most potential to dominate on the sands as our own fucking champion has." A laugh punctuated his speech. "I thought the gods had fucked me when I bought you and the rest. I thought you would never be gladiators." Batiatus' steps slowed and he moved in front of Agron, turning toward him and extending his arms and laying eyes upon him in wonder. "But look at you now."

Still, Agron had no reply. He might have shown gratitude, but anything he could think of saying would seem so small in the shadow of the lanista's musings. This seemed to suit Batiatus, though. "A man of few words. Good. You're a fucking gladiator, not an orator." A grin and another clap on Agron's shoulder. "And a gladiator that performs well in the arena earns reward. What would you have of me?"

A look of shock registered clearly on Agron's face. Reward? Beyond the coin he'd earned for his victory? Spartacus must have spoken highly of Agron indeed. He would remember to thank the Thracian later on. But still, the German was at a loss. What would he ask of his dominus? What did he want that the lanista could give him?

"Wine?" the lanista suggested helpfully. "Whores?"

Only the wine appealed to him, though he knew what he'd get wouldn't be the quality of the stuff he'd just been treated to. Agron shrugged his shoulders and parted his lips to say that wine for himself and the rest of the men would be much appreciated - but then he stilled as something dawned on him. Something he wanted more than wine and more than whores.

Batiatus saw the realization come to Agron's face. "You have thought of something," he said excitedly. "Put it to words and see it done."

The lanista promised much without knowing what Agron desired. The gladiator was hesitant to say, but somehow, he found his voice. "The slave," he said. "Belonging to the Roman that took interest in me." No doubt Batiatus remembered that particular display at his last party. A fact soon proved when the lanista nodded his understanding. "I would see him again."

There was a split second of something in Batiatus' eyes. It may have been mocking. No doubt the idea of two slaves from separate households wanting one another's company was an idea quaint and droll to a man of Batiatus' stature, but he had vowed to have it done. Agron waited with bated breath to see if the lanista would keep his word. "I will go see Leddicus myself," Batiatus said. That must have been the Roman's name. Agron would have preferred never knowing. Despite that, though, a smile curled the gladiator's lips at the other man's words. "You will have the slave—" Batiatus stopped, looking for a name.

"Tiberius," Agron said. It was the first time he'd said the name aloud. His smile faltered in doing so; he hadn't even been thinking when he'd spoken, and he wished he'd somehow savored it more.

"—Tiberius," the lanista continued, "in your arms soon enough."

So it would be done. Batiatus glanced past Agron and snapped his fingers at a nearby slave girl, gesturing for her to come forward. That was the gladiator's cue to leave. Agron nodded one. "Dominus," he said, and then turned to follow the slave through the villa and back downstairs to the dirt and the blood. None of it could touch him, though, for he'd just secured himself time with Tiberius when a day ago he might have laughed at the idea of ever seeing the slave again. Forget that he didn't know whether or not the man wanted to have anything to do with him. Forget that Tiberius didn't even know Agron's name. To only be near the slave once more would be reward enough for a thousand victories in the arena.

When the gate closed behind him, Agron turned to see his brother waiting for him. Duro's features were drawn and worried and he rushed forward. "What did he want?" he asked.

Agron's face split into a grin. He reached out and roughly grabbed the side of Duro's face. "The fucking gods favor me today, little brother," he said with a laugh before playfully smacking the man's cheek and pushing him aside. There was a Thracian to find and thank for this kindness.


	3. Chapter 3

It only took a few swings of Agron's wooden sword to bring Duro down. The German lay on his back in the sand, his chest heaving and his expression defeated. With a sigh, Agron reached out and took his brother's forearm, pulling him back onto his feet. "You are lucky Doctore's eyes were elsewhere," he said in a low voice, pulling his brother closer momentarily, "and he didn't see your ass hit fucking sand for the third time." Finally, there was a little defiance in Duro's eyes, and he pushed away from Agron, positioning himself for another bout. Agron did the same, but before they could begin, a voice cut through the sound of the gladiators' training.

"Doctore!" All eyes rose to the balcony, where Batiatus stood. "Send Agron to the villa." His gaze wandered to the gladiator, and then he added, "But first have him clean himself." Agron glanced down at his body. He was covered in dirt, sand, and sweat. But why did he need to clean himself? And why was he being summoned?

But then realization hit, and his eyes flew back to the balcony, as if looking to confirm his thoughts, but Batiatus was gone. This must have meant that Agron would finally get the reward he'd asked for. This must have meant that at that very moment, Tiberius was somewhere within the villa. He'd almost forgotten; it had been days and days since he'd even made the request. But now he recalled every moment of anticipation, every second he'd spent wondering and worrying and hoping.

Agron looked to Doctore, who only nodded. A grin splitting his face, Agron shoved his wooden sword into Duro's hands and clapped his brother on the shoulder. With that, he ran inside and to the bath, making quick work of cleansing his skin of the filth that had accumulated there. His heart was beating fast in his chest. What would Tiberius say to being so summoned? Would he think it strange? Did he even remember Agron? That, perhaps, was his biggest fear, over Tiberius not wanting to see him at all; he was afraid the slave would have simply forgotten who Agron was. It would be a blow greatly felt, considering just how much the gladiator had been thinking of Tiberius since their first unfortunate meeting. But from that misfortune had come something more. At least, in Agron's eyes. He only hoped Tiberius felt the same.

It wasn't long before Agron stood before the gate separating the ludus from the villa. There, a slave had been waiting and soon pulled out keys to let him through. He followed the girl upstairs, much as he had done the day he'd requested this very reward, and she led him through the villa and into one of the larger rooms. Agron hadn't a name for it; in his home country, there were no villas. Still, he was surprised at having been taken to such an open space; he'd thought something more private was in store for himself and Tiberius. But perhaps they would go somewhere else once they met.

There were yet more surprises in store. Agron's brows drew together in confusion as his eyes surveyed what was before him. There was Tiberius, his hands behind his back and his gaze lowered. Nearby stood Leddicus, the Roman man, whose lips were twisted in a grin Agron was loathe to recall. And there was one more in the room with them: not Batiatus, not one of the house's slaves, but a man kneeling on the floor, his hands bound in front of him and a canvas bag over his head.

They stood in silence for a moment, though once in a while a whimper could be heard from the unfortunate who knelt on the tile beneath him. Soon, the voice of Leddicus sounded to drown out the pathetic noise. "I was audience to your last fight," he said, tone conversational, as if the situation in which they found themselves was one entirely typical. "A wonderful display of gladiatorial skill. How the crowd screamed for you." That voice _crawled_ like some legless thing over Agron's skin. He wanted to be free of it; he wanted to go back the way he'd come and never hear another word from the Roman, but he couldn't leave. He wasn't free to.

And Tiberius being so near kept him there.

Still, Leddicus spoke. "Good Batiatus spoke of your desire for my slave's company," he said. At that, Agron saw Tiberius's gaze shift, though it didn't rise to meet the gladiator's. "A reward for victory in the arena. As dear neighbor and trusted friend to Batiatus, I could not refuse."

Agron barely breathed. Nothing about this was right. His temper rose; on the tip of his tongue was a demand for explanation, but he needed to remember his place if he wanted to remain in this world. And he would not go to the afterlife with this Roman's countenance the last thing on his mind. So he was silent, quiet as all slaves were meant to be. And Leddicus continued on.

"But I could not be so kind without getting something in return," the man said. He stepped forward, drawing Agron's eyes to him, and only then did the gladiator notice the weapons held in soft, weak Roman hands. Two swords, both steel and sharp and very real. "I requested a private show. I would see you perform as you do in the arena." Leddicus moved closer and closer before pressing one of the swords into Agron's hand. The gladiator, eyes narrowed, weighed the steel in his grasp, and could only watch as Leddicus turned his back to him and approached the kneeling man. From here, Agron would be able to embed the sword in the Roman's skull. It would take one swing to land a killing blow. His muscles tensed; he was prepared to do it. He _wanted_ to do it. But then he caught movement in the corner of his eye.

Tiberius had shifted, lifting his head and looking at Agron. The gladiator's hardened expression immediately softened and he forgot what he'd intended to do - and by the time he remembered again, Leddicus had pulled the canvas bag from the prisoner's head and turned around again. The opportunity was lost.

"A slave," the Roman said, referring to the kneeling man. "Caught stealing from his dominus. He will die for his crimes." Leddicus' gaze slid from the man to Agron. "You will execute him as you would an enemy of Rome upon the sands."

Everything fell into place. So this is what he would do in exchange for the reward he'd asked for. How like a Roman to take advantage of so simple a request. How like a Roman to glean something for himself out of a thing meant for another. But Agron wouldn't pretend to know how dealings happened between people like Leddicus and Batiatus. Perhaps that was where the gladiator's failing was. He'd never thought, not for a moment, that he'd have to work for a prize he'd already earned. He'd never thought that there would be more to this than him asking for Tiberius's company and then receiving it. He never thought these third parties would have a hand in it.

The condemned man was looking up at Agron with terror in his eyes. And rightly so. The man knew that Agron, despite being a gladiator, was not a free man and had to do the bidding of his betters.

"Nod that you understand, slave," Leddicus' slithering voice commanded.

Agron nodded. But his face was not impassive as it should have been. It wasn't simply blank or content with what was being demanded of him. There was fire and anger behind his blue gaze, rage at being made to do this. It was in that moment that Agron decided he would not give this man the show he desired. No, he would make quick work of this, because the Roman deserved nothing of what he asked for.

Leddicus slid the second sword through the rope binding the prisoner's hands together, freeing them, and then handed the sword over. The prisoner stood on shaking legs and turned to look at Leddicus. "Dominus," he begged. He looked in the wrong place for mercy. He should have instead looked to Agron, pleading for the most painless death possible.

The smile upon Leddicus' lips was nothing if not predatory. "You have a chance to fight for life," he said to the condemned. "See that chance taken."

The man about to die, for the last time, did as he was told. He lifted his sword in an unsure grip and ran at Agron, brandishing the weapon as a child might have. The first swing was easily countered; the second connected, but only slightly, leaving the smallest of cuts on the gladiator's upper arm. But that was enough. Agron barely had to move; he only pulled his arm back and thrust it forward again and his gladius slid through the other man's open mouth and out of the back of his head, killing him instantly. The body crumbled to the floor and blood began to seep from the wound toward Leddicus.

The Roman took a step back from the slowly growing pool. It was clear in the expression on his face that he wasn't in the least bit impressed with Agron's display. The gladiator half-expected him to take Tiberius and leave - and though Agron would be sad to have lost the opportunity to ever see the slave again, he wouldn't have done anything differently. No, his defiance would have remained, had he been forced to do it once more.

But Leddicus remained. "Gratitude," he said, and his tone held not a shred of sincerity. With that, he brushed past Agron and to a pair of doors on the far side of the room. He threw them open and revealed what lay behind it; Agron could see that in the other room were blankets and pillows piled on the floor - more comfort than Agron had ever known. "Come, gladiator," the Roman said before turning his head to look at Agron over his shoulder. "Claim your reward." He stepped to the side and gestured for Agron to approach, which the German did cautiously, fearing some other trick. But there was nothing beyond those doors but silk and cushions, things the likes of which Agron had never seen. Perhaps that was why Batiatus had had Agron clean himself; otherwise he would have ruined what was laid here for him. And he would have looked so terribly out of place.

Tiberius had walked through those same doors as Agron had been looking around, and suddenly the gladiator heard those doors close. He turned, expecting to find himself and the slave alone - but there stood Leddicus still. Staring at him. _Smiling_.

For the first time, Agron spoke. It was out of turn; he'd not been given permission. That accounted for the surprise that came onto Leddicus' features. "What is this?" the gladiator asked. His eyes were narrowed and there was a new tension in the air. Briefly, Agron looked to Tiberius, as if for an answer, but the slave only stared back silently.

Leddicus smiled a mocking smile. "Your reward," he said. "To take my slave on this floor…" He gestured, and Tiberius stepped forward. "…with me as audience."

Agron's face fell. Slowly he began to shake his head. No, this wasn't right. This wasn't what he'd wanted. He'd only asked for Tiberius's company - not his body. Not for this Roman to watch. He'd only wanted the slave's voice, to touch his skin and remember it, to know those dark eyes again. His lips spoke of what was in his mind. "I did not ask for this," he said, and moved to leave - but then Tiberius was standing before him, blocking his way. Agron looked down at the other man, confused, but any thought of raising question disappeared when Tiberius reached out and pressed his hands against the gladiator's chest.

And for the first time, Agron heard him speak. "Keep your eyes on me," he whispered, softly enough that his dominus would not catch the words. Agron's retreating footsteps were stayed and he did as he'd been told. "We must do this." And then, lifting his hands and taking Agron's face gently in them, Tiberius pulled the gladiator down into a kiss.

The feeling of those lips on Agron's own brought memories rushing back of their only other encounter. How tentative Tiberius had been, then. How slow to react to the kiss and slow to return it. But now he was the driving force in it. Where Agron was hesitant, Tiberius was bold, and it wasn't until the gladiator felt the other man's tongue seek out entrance to his mouth did he part his lips and press forward, his arms wrapping around Tiberius's middle. ' _We must do this_.' The words echoed in Agron's mind. This was necessity. This was survival. This was everything Agron didn't want it to be.

Using his gentle grip on the gladiator's face, Tiberius turned the two around so that Leddicus was at the Agron's back. Then the slave began to lower himself to the floor - but before he could, Agron caught him up, tightened his grip around the other man's body and held him close, using his strength to slowly lay Tiberius beneath him. Because though this had been forced upon them, he would take care of this man. He would be tender. If this was going to be the first and last time they would lay together or even see each other, Agron would give Tiberius something to remember him by.

All while trying to forget the man who stood by and watched.

Their hands began to explore. Agron moved first, his arms sliding from around Tiberius and his fingers lightly grazing the soft skin of the man's waist. A flick of Agron's tongue over Tiberius's upper lip was what coaxed the slave into movement; his fingers disappeared into Agron's hair and tugged the gladiator back into the kiss before dragging down the back of his neck and over the planes of his shoulders. And then, beneath Agron, Tiberius began to move.

One of the gladiator's legs was pushed between the slave's and it was against it that Tiberius pressed, rocking his hips. Agron's breath caught in his throat. Tiberius had been so passive when they'd been forced into lewd display at Batiatus' party but now he was beautifully responsive. What Agron didn't know was whether or not it was for him or for Leddicus.

But surely the way Tiberius's skin warmed beneath his hands couldn't have been just a show. For who could see it? And who could see a fast heartbeat and a quickening pulse? Not the Roman. But Agron could feel these things against his own body, and he suffered them as well. That meant something. It must have.

A short sound of pleasure pulled Tiberius away from the kiss. Taking the time to catch his breath, Agron opened his eyes and looked down at the other man to find that dark gaze already upon him. The two stared at one another as they had across the sands of the arena. As they had across the room when they'd both been covered in gold. As they had that very day when they'd been forced to endure the hissing words of the reptilian Leddicus. Agron's lips parted in what would have been an apology, but Tiberius's fingers slid to those lips and pressed against them. And then, holding Agron's gaze, the slave dragged both of his hands down the side of the gladiator's body until they came upon the subligaria he wore. And like they had once before, those hands removed Agron's clothing from his body, leaving him naked. Tiberius's own clothing soon followed, and it was with a shock that the two found themselves pressed skin-to-skin.

Their mouths crashed together in a kiss more desperate than the last. Tiberius shifted underneath Agron without breaking away from the lips pressed against his own and wrapped his legs around the gladiator, trying to pull the other man's body closer, and Agron obliged as well as he could but he felt they would never, ever be close enough. Suddenly, the two were flipped over, Tiberius now on top of Agron and straddling him, and just as suddenly as that the gladiator felt something being pressed into his hands. What he'd missed there among all the blankets and pillows was a clay bottle of oil. He needed only to glance at it to know what it was and its use, and soon it went to purpose. Fingers coated in the stuff slid down Tiberius's spine and then lower still until they coaxed their way inside of him. A short breath escaped the slave and disappeared into Agron's mouth at the new sensation.

It wasn't long before those fingers moved freely, their way made easier by the slickening oil. Tiberius was gasping by the time Agron was finished, doing everything short of begging him for more. And so, granting the slave mercy, Agron rolled them over again and pulled the other man's legs around him once more. The gladiator grabbed for the oil but Tiberius snatched it up first, pouring the liquid on hands shaking and clumsy and, for the first time in the slave's company, Agron smiled. Tiberius had come undone and Agron was charmed by it - for all of a few seconds until the other man's fingers wrapped around his length and pulled in one long, slow stroke. Then the gladiator's smile disappeared and he closed his eyes, a shaking breath escaping him.

Reaching between them, Agron took Tiberius's wrist and pulled that hand away, pinning it by the man's head and lacing their fingers together. Pressing his weight forward, the gladiator coaxed Tiberius's legs further apart and then, with his free hand, guided his length to the slave's opening. He meant to go slowly, to ease into it, but suddenly Tiberius's thighs tightened around him, bringing their bodies forcefully together and burying his length entirely inside of that tight, hot channel. Agron gripped Tiberius's thigh, his fingertips digging into that flesh, and he stilled the both of them, fearing he might be overcome by the sudden, intense pleasure.

But soon, he moved. Agron took up the slave's other hand, held both of them against the floor over Tiberius's head and then slowly, slowly rolled his hips. And then again. And again. Tiberius's nails cut into the skin of Agron's hands but he didn't care. He welcomed it. He welcomed all of it. The halting breaths, the fluttering eyelids, the knees pressing hard enough into his hips to bruise. The lips parted and begging for a kiss. Agron leaned down and captured them to the sound of an encouraging moan from the slave beneath him.

It seemed the gladiator moved too slowly for Tiberius's taste. The slave pulled his hands from under Agron's and dragged them down the man's body, following the curve of his back and ass and grabbing onto that flesh, pushing his hips into a faster rhythm. Agron might have laughed, had he the breath for it. Instead, he slid his fingers into Tiberius's hair and tugged gently, eliciting another noise from him. Agron would discover every last sound Tiberius could make by the time they were finished.

Agron was lost in the writhing and heaving of their bodies. In the rhythm they had created between them, in Tiberius's slick skin against his own, in the dark locks of hair curling around his fingers. He was lost and he'd never felt this kind of bliss—

But then he was pulled forcefully from it. Suddenly, there was a hand on his back. A foreign hand whose fingers explored the muscles that rippled with every thrust. Agron stopped, breaking away from the kiss. His body tensed under the unwanted touch before his mind finally caught up to what was happening - and then he realized just who was touching him. Leddicus. Agron had finally been able to forget that the man was even in the room. He'd been able to immerse himself entirely in Tiberius and push away the knowledge that they'd been forced into this. But no longer. He had been reminded and it showed on his face.

Reaching up, Tiberius gently took Agron's chin in his hand and pulled the gladiator's gaze back to him. "Agron," Tiberius whispered, and the shock of hearing his own name from those lips focused the gladiator's blue eyes. How beautiful the slave looked. His face was flushed and his hair was wild and he was breathing so heavily and he'd just said Agron's _name_ and the gladiator had never heard anything so sweet. "Don't stop," the slave continued, following the words with the smallest of smiles. How unsure it seemed, that simple curling of the lips. How meek and how lovely. It was gone as quickly as it had appeared and that, more than anything, brought Agron back to himself. He would see that smile again.

And so they picked up as if they hadn't been interrupted. And whenever Leddicus reached out and touched Agron, the gladiator was determined not to feel it. He wouldn't react, wouldn't acknowledge it, would only further put himself into making love - because that's what they were doing; certainly they weren't _fucking_ \- to Tiberius. Tiberius. who knew his name. Tiberius, into whose dark eyes he looked. Tiberius, who hadn't left Agron's dreams since the night they'd met.

The slave's brows drew together slightly, his lips parting and his body slowly tensing beneath Agron's. Tiberius reached between them and took his own flesh in hand stroking it quickly, and Agron could feel that movement against his stomach. He shifted and began to thrust at that same place, driving Tiberius to his release, wanting so badly to see what that face would look like in the throes of pleasure. Soon, Tiberius's body jerked and tightened and he came, his moans trembling along with the rest of him. And there, just at the end of his release, was the smile Agron had longed for.

The gladiator's own release followed quickly. He couldn't hold off, not with Tiberius clutching onto him and shaking, not with the body into which he thrust wrapped so tightly around him. And the moment he came, Tiberius leaned up and pressed his lips against Agron's, tasting the moans that were pulled from the gladiator's throat.

And so it was finished. Agron began to pull away but Tiberius held fast. "Stay," he said softly, the word low and only for the gladiator's ears. And so Agron stayed, lifting a hand to run his fingers through the slave's hair. It was a beautiful moment of intimacy shared between two people that should have been strangers but felt much closer than that.

A voice cut through that intimacy and chased it away. "We leave when I finish speaking with Batiatus, Tiberius," Leddicus said. Agron didn't look to him when he spoke. He never wanted to see that face again. "Part from your gladiator and see yourself cleaned and at my side."

"Dominus," came Tiberius's reply, his dark eyes lowering. Agron heard the sound of doors opening and then closing again.

And for the first time, the two were alone.

Tiberius's gaze lifted once more. The silence suddenly felt heavy, burdened with all the words that had never passed between them.

"Tiberius," Agron said, and to follow would be apology after apology. For all of this. For ever asking to see him again. For forcing him into something he hadn't wanted to do. But, for the second time, the slave stopped the apology before it ever began.

"I am glad for this," he whispered, taking Agron by surprise. And before the gladiator could even begin to think of a reply, the slave was gently pulling himself away, moving from beneath Agron to carry out his dominus' orders. Nearby was a basin filled with water and cuts of cloth folded beside it; everything needed had been provided, it seemed. Tiberius stood on shaky legs and made his way over to the basin, kneeling and dipping a cloth into it to slowly drag it over his skin, removing all evidence of their lovemaking. Agron followed after, but instead of cleaning himself, he took up a cloth helped Tiberius. The slave's hand faltered and stilled for a moment before dropping the rag it held; Tiberius slid his fingers over Agron's, looking down at where they touched.

There was a moment of silence, and then Agron spoke. "I will see you to my arms again," he promised - not in a whisper but in a voice strong and determined. In a voice defiant. Tiberius looked up at him, eyes wide and hopeful. And then he nodded only once.

They parted. Clothes were pulled onto tired and spent bodies in haste, neither of them wanting to leave Leddicus waiting for fear of his punishment. But by the double doors, they paused, and in the same moment turned to one another and crashed together in a hard, desperate, searing kiss. Agron grazed Tiberius's bottom lip with his teeth, tugged on it gently and pulled one last breathless moan from him: a moan of Agron's name. The gladiator would keep that sound forever. He would keep the taste of that kiss forever, or at least until he could hold the slave in his arms once more.

The doors were opened and Tiberius slipped through them. Agron remained where he was, watching as this familiar stranger, this man he knew so little and yet so intimately, walked away from him. And this time, Agron didn't have to beg silently to have those eyes turn toward him; they remained fixed upon his own until the very last lingering second, and when they disappeared, Agron only began to count the moments until he could see them again.


	4. Chapter 4

Though Tiberius's body moved through the motions, automatically went to task and completed his daily duties, his mind was somewhere else. At that very moment his gaze was unfocused, staring at nothing except what played in the back of his eyes: visions of silk, of blue eyes, of golden flecks.

"Tiberius," a voice said, calling for his attention. The Syrian blinked and glanced at the woman nearby. Her brows were raised and she was shaking her head at him. "Did you hear nothing of what I just said?" Chadara asked, draping the tunic she was folding over one arm so she could cross both over her chest. Though her stance and words had every potential for severity, there was an amused light in her eyes.

The body slave scrambled for an excuse. "Apologies," he said, looking quickly down to the tunic he held in his own hands and occupying himself with folding it. "Sleep did not come easily to me last night." But that was a lie; sleep had come easily to him and he'd surrendered happily to the dreams that had followed. Dreams the likes of which he'd never had before and that featured a man who, by rights, Tiberius should never have known.

A short pause, and then Chadara threw the tunic she held at Tiberius. It hit him full in the face with a dull _fwump_ and hung there. "Never have I met anyone more useless in a lie," the woman said, laughing. Tiberius slowly tugged the tunic off of his head, his dark eyes peeking out of the folds of the fabric. When he was finally free of it, Tiberius was grinning. "That smile hides something," Chadara said, advancing on him. He backed up a few steps to escape her but only managed to trap himself in a corner of the room. "Tell me!"

"There is nothing to tell!" he exclaimed, his face once more betraying the lie. He held up the laundry in his arms, as if that would somehow protect him. But it didn't. Chadara reached out for him and, without a shred of mercy, began to torture him. Her prodding fingers poked at his sides, immediately leaving him breathless with laughter. She was a creature from the underworld, that's what she was, treating him so cruelly. Through his gasps, he managed a threat: "You tread on dangerous ground," but it could hardly be taken seriously when his features were so stretched in a smile.

Finally, she stopped her attack, but only when Tiberius had slid down the wall he leaned against and curled up. "Now will you tell me?" she asked, her blue eyes narrowed and her body tensed to launch another assault. Tiberius, breathing heavily, finally gave in an nodded, and so Chadara sat on the floor next to him, leaning eagerly toward him.

But what was there to say? Tiberius racked his mind to find the words, but he found nothing that didn't sound entirely foolish. Chadara was his dearest friend and he should have been able to tell her anything but he feared being laughed out of the villa. So the body slave picked and chose his words very carefully. "My mind is distracted by thought of a man," he said.

"A man?" Chadara repeated with no small amount of interest.

"More than a man," Tiberius continued, and he couldn't keep the wonder from his expression. The admiration. "A gladiator." A _god_.

It was clearly something Chadara hadn't been expecting. Her blue eyes first widened and then narrowed again in confusion. "Did you see one in the arena you admire?" she asked, tilting her head to the side. In that moment, Tiberius was transported back to the pulvinus where he'd stood behind his dominus and had watched his gladiator fight a fierce battle. The slave remembered the moment Agron had turned, the moment that gaze had fallen upon him - and then the moment that had been suspended in time, one that had seemed to last forever and ever when they'd simply looked at one another, no doubt both struck to the core by memories of their first encounter.

Tiberius shook his head slightly, chasing away the recollection in favor of reality, for now. "We met before then," he continued, and his fingers idly played at the hem of the tunic in his hands. "When I accompanied Dominus to the ludus." The body slave recalled the first time he'd tasted Agron's kiss. The gladiator's warm body, naked and slick with oil and flecked with gold, had been pressed against his own and never had he touched anything so beautiful. Tiberius closed his eyes and took a breath; the memory would consume and inflame him if he didn't keep it in check. "And we met again when he asked for me as reward for victory in the arena."

Chadara's lips parted in shock and then curled into a smile. "Did you and he..?" she asked, trailing off. It was clear what she was asking, and when Tiberius nodded, she let out a shocked laugh. "Who is he? What is he called?"

"Agron," Tiberius answered. He had never spoken that name to anyone but the man himself, and even then it had been in a moan. It was strange to hear it now, but not unpleasant. Not in the least. Though what he said next did taste bitter. "Dominus has some interest in him."

There was a knowing and sympathetic look in Chadara's eyes. "An unfortunate thing. But perhaps that can be used to advantage." She paused and reached out to touch Tiberius's arm. "He must love you. This gladiator. That he asked for you reveals his heart."

Tiberius dared not think of that. He had to steer his mind away from such thoughts often, especially after their last meeting. It had ended in a promise - that Agron would see Tiberius to his arms again. And it had been said with such conviction, with such sentiment. Perhaps it had been love but Tiberius was afraid to think of it as such. Because what if it was a promise Agron couldn't keep? What is Tiberius was left waiting forever only to realize too late that it couldn't have been love at all? Because how easily he, too, could name himself in love with the gladiator. How effortless it would be to fall into it. But how simply, too, he could fall victim to it.

"There is no sense in it," Tiberius sighed, leaning his head back against the wall. His gaze wandered to the ceiling above; he didn't want to see the truth of his words reflected in Chadara's eyes. "We are two slaves from different houses."

"But," Chadara said, "some gladiators win freedom. Perhaps your Agron could. Then he would come to you."

Slowly, Tiberius turned to look at Chadara. His only friend in the world smiled and nodded her encouragement, and in that moment Tiberius allowed himself the smallest bit of hope. Freedom - it had never appealed to him before. But this was the first time he'd ever had a reason to wish for it.

The body slave opened his mouth to speak, but before another word escaped him, a third voice sounded. It was another one of the slaves, come to fetch them. "Dominus summons you both to his bedchamber," she said before disappearing again. Reality had come back to them at the worst of times. Chadara was the first to stand with a sigh, and she held out her hand for him.

"Let us go," she said, helping to pull Tiberius to his feet. "And may you dream of your gladiator in the coming moments. Perhaps I'll dream up one of my own." With a small smile, Tiberius wrapped his arm around his friend, and together they were from the room and to their duty.

* * *

Agron sat gracelessly on the floor, his back against the wall and a bowl full of food in his hands. He was breathing heavily; he'd thrown all of himself into training that day and his body was feeling every last bit of effort he'd put forth. The never-ending heat only exhausted him more, but there was some solace from it where he sat, the cool stone floor beneath him and the sun's bright rays chased away by shadow. Most other gladiators sat at the tables, talking and eating and leaving Agron to his rest. Duro, though, soon approached and sat next to his brother.

"Do you mean to kill yourself in training?" Duro asked immediately after taking his place next to Agron. The younger man appeared far less exhausted than the other. "You look on verge of fucking collapse."

A short, breathless laugh escaped Agron. "A fate you will surely never suffer," he answered, "as the only thing you put effort into is being beaten." The remark was answered with a shove, and what resulted was a short tussle between the brothers in which food was abandoned in favor of flailing fists, though there was little force behind them. Had Agron been a little less tired, he might have caught Duro easily in a choke hold and ended the brawl quickly - but it was over soon enough and they picked up their food again, resuming their meal in the limited time they received to enjoy it as if the fight had never happened. So was the brothers' relationship.

Duro spoke up again through a mouthful of the gruel. "You still keep secret the reward Dominus gave you," he said, "but since then you have fought like a man possessed." Agron was surprised his brother had even noticed such a thing. He was hardly an observant man. Perhaps the idea had come from Spartacus; Agron recalled the man's eyes on him as he trained. And the Thracian fuck was far more clever than Duro was, and far more likely to make that connection.

Perhaps Agron had waited long enough to tell Duro of Tiberius. For a few days, he'd wanted the memory of the slave to himself; he hadn't want to share it but had instead desired to keep it close and private, if only to revel in it. But Duro was his brother and knew everything about him, and this slave was an new aspect too great to conceal. Tiberius, after only a few meetings between the two of them, possessed all of Agron's mind and heart. This was something family should be made aware of.

Agron took a breath. "I was given a slave," he revealed, unable to keep the grin off his face. Thought of Tiberius always called forth such happiness, even in the shadow of the unfortunate circumstances that had brought them together. Agron continued. "One I had met before, by chance. I expressed desire to see him again and Dominus saw it done."

The spoonful of Duro's food that had been traveling toward his mouth had stopped midway. Agron turned to see a skeptical expression on his features. "Memory of some slave ignites fire within you during training?" A scoff, and Duro continued eating. "Must have been a good fuck."

Agron's eyes narrowed in a dangerous expression. He stared at his brother for a moment before lifting a hand and smacking him 'round the back of his head. Duro's face shot forward and nearly landed right in his bowl of food, but luckily stopped just short. That was, luckily for him, but a pity for Agron. He would have liked to see Duro covered in the gruel. "He is more than some slave," Agron snapped in a tone not to be argued with. It was a tone often used when speaking to his brother. "Show respect."

"Respect for a slave?" Duro asked incredulously, his face red with embarrassment and anger. He made no attempt to retaliate, though, recognizing the seriousness in Agron's voice.

"No," Agron answered. "Respect for the one that holds beloved brother's heart."

A silence fell between them. Duro turned quickly to look at his brother in surprise, both brows raised and eyes wide. No such words had ever fallen from Agron's lips before. Never had he made a declaration of love for another. It seemed Duro's mind was slow to absorb the new information, but after a moment he opened his mouth to speak - only to be interrupted when Doctore called out Agron's name.

The gladiator's gaze shifted to Oenomaus. "You have been summoned," Doctore continued. Agron nodded, though he was confused - what could his dominus want from him now? Agron wasn't accustomed to the attention he'd been getting from the lanista and couldn't help but feel slightly suspicious of it. Still, he could do nothing but obey. Handing over his bowl to his brother, Agron reached out and clapped him on the shoulder. "We will speak more of this later," he said, and then took the now-familiar path to the stairs that would lead him into the villa.

As usual, there was a slave girl waiting to lead him to Batiatus. Agron walked the seemingly endless corridors and was taken to a room he hadn't seen before, one that held a large desk. Behind it sat the lanista himself, buried in paperwork. It was a rare glimpse behind the scenes of the ludus that Agron hadn't been expecting. And here he though Batiatus was an idle man that left all affairs to others while he sat back and accumulated gold.

"Ah!" Batiatus exclaimed, putting down the piece of parchment that had been in his hand. "Here he is. My savage German." The title was said with relish. Sitting back in his chair, the lanista folded his hands over his stomach and peered at the man before him. "I watched part of training today. You continue to show improvement."

Surely Agron hadn't been summoned so that Batiatus could compliment him on his training. But still, the gladiator bowed his head once. "Gratitude, Dominus," he said simply.

But the lanista wasn't finished. "And you continue to make a name for yourself," he said. "Leddicus left this villa quite satisfied after parting from your company. And he is a man not easily pleased." The gladiator would have preferred not to be reminded of the Roman. Just the sound of his name made Agron's skin crawl. He said nothing against Leddicus, though, and would never dare to in Batiatus' presence; it wasn't his place to do so and he would surely suffer for it. For the moment it seemed he was in the lanista's good graces, too, and it was a place he wouldn't soon try to leave.

Batiatus stood from his chair and approached Agron, stopping before him and leaning back against the front of the desk. "In light of Barca's new-found freedom," the lanista continued, crossing his arms over his chest,"I find myself short a bodyguard." Both of his eyebrows lifted and he gave the other man a pointed look. "Perhaps you can think of a man to replace him."

Agron blinked under his dominus' gaze. It took the gladiator a moment to realize that Batiatus didn't truly want him to recommend another of the brotherhood for the job but meant instead for Agron to take up Barca's mantle. It was a shock, but he was quick to reply, even before his brain had properly processed the idea. "I live only to serve you, Dominus," he said, as was expected of him, no matter the lack of any real sentiment behind it. The lanista seemed pleased by the answer, though, and extended his arms in a gesture that was almost welcoming.

"Then I will call on you when you are needed by my side," Batiatus said with a grin. "Now," he said, and turned to retreat behind his desk once more. "Return to training." He sat in his chair again and pointed at Agron. "And fight with new purpose in mind - as if to protect your dominus." It was said with finality and served as a dismissal. Agron nodded and muttered the customary farewell - "Dominus." - before turning and once more following the slave girl back to the ludus. His mind raced; it began to dawn on him that his station in this world had just risen a level. And with that ascent, he could more readily have his dominus' ear and favor.

A smile slowly appeared on Agron's face as he descended the wooden stairs into the lower depths of the villa. It seemed he was only getting closer and closer to fulfilling the promise he'd made to Tiberius - that he would hold the slave in his arms again, no matter what. Perhaps with this new station he found himself in, he would be able to seek out the other man's company - and hopefully next time, it would be without the shadow of Leddicus hovering over them.


	5. Chapter 5

Since the slaver's ship that had held Agron and his brother had docked at Neapolis, Agron had only ever known the captivity of high walls around him. The ludus, the arena - both were cages and he'd been trapped within them. But now he walked the streets of Capua as he never had before. He stood at Batiatus' side as his bodyguard and it was so strange to be walking through the streets, weaving through crowds of people and brushing shoulders with them. These were the same people that sat in the arena and cheered when he robbed a man of life. These were the people that screamed for blood. How subdued they were as they walked through the city or sold their wares to passersby. How human they seemed, when in the audience at the arena they were no more than animals.

The day had been long. Agron had been summoned to the villa early in the morning and had left soon after, and now the afternoon sun was high above. The gladiator knew nothing of what his dominus was doing in the city; Batiatus disappeared into various buildings, talked to various shopkeepers, and always Agron was left at the door, just out of sight and earshot and set to watch. No doubt the lanista did all he could to secure his place at whatever games approached or else prepared for another party or even did all he could to further his ambition toward public office. Agron cared nothing for it; he only did what he'd been ordered and asked no questions.

Agron was fascinated by the raised voices all around him. Never had he heard such a din. Down the street a butcher shouted praise of his own freshly slaughtered meat. Nearby a woman rattled jewels set in fine necklaces and called out enticing offers. An apothecary sold an elixir to more easily fall to slumber, a potter displayed expertly made clay creations, a carpenter offered up chairs carved and ornate. Never had Agron seen anything more extravagant than what was sold on this one street - and the shops were endless, disappearing into alleys and winding down even more roads that the gladiator had never walked.

But a particular voice cut through the noise and Agron stiffened, his body tense and his gaze sweeping over the crowd. It was a voice vile and venomous, one that sank into Agron's skin and slithered beneath it. Leddicus. The gladiator couldn't make out what the man was saying - nor could he see from where the voice came - but the tone was unmistakable. As much as Agron wanted to scour his mind of any memory of the man, he could not. So instead he tried to find distraction in thought of the only good thing that had ever come to him from Leddicus: Tiberius.

The distraction only served Agron but a moment before Leddicus was standing before him. But then, suddenly, reality was preferred to fantasy, because not far behind the Roman man was the very slave Agron had been thinking of. How different Tiberius looked in the sunlight. It made his skin glow and showed colors in his hair Agron would never have been able to conceive, ones he would never be able to name. And the way those dark eyes looked at him, bright with happiness at this chance meeting - it was all Agron could do not to step forward and sweep the man into his arms. But it was impossible with Leddicus so near.

"A rare thing," the Roman said, eyes traveling unabashedly over Agron's body. "Seeing a gladiator outside of the arena." Leddicus adjusted the cloth of his toga draped over one arm. "And off of his leash. Where is your master?"

Agron had to force his attention away from Tiberius. "Inside conducting business," was his short answer, and he nodded toward the nearby doorway. Leddicus leaned to the side to look within before glancing back at the man standing before him. Always, that gaze felt heavy upon Agron. It felt like a clumsy hand, unwanted and and undesirable but impossible to avoid as it slid over his skin. What he wouldn't give to be rid of it.

The gods favored him that day. Now twice, he'd given a thing thought only to have it handed to him. Leddicus soon took his leave. "Good. I will have words with him. I mean to secure another… meeting with you." The Roman glanced over his shoulder at Tiberius. "Remain here. Wait for my return." And with that,he stepped into the building at Agron's back, and the two slaves were left alone.

Agron shifted blue eyes to the other man. There was a moment of stillness, a moment in which it dawned on them both that they had this rare moment of privacy - or, a least, time away from their masters. And once that moment had passed, they both in the very same second reached for one another. Agron's arms slid around Tiberius and nearly lifted the man off his feet in his haste to turn their bodies into the alleyway immediately adjacent the very place into which their domini had disappeared. The gladiator pushed Tiberius up against the wall and found the slave's lips in a desperate, bruising kiss.

And Tiberius responded in kind. A thrill traveled the length of Agron's body when the slave pushed forward into the kiss, gasping and and clutching at the gladiator, trying to pull him closer though there wasn't a single inch of space between them. So much was shared between them in that touch. Desire, longing, unbridled happiness at seeing one another when every day they spent apart they were reminded of how slim the chance were that they'd ever see each other once more. In that touch was desperate need, hope cloying and sweet, and underneath it all, a certain sadness that there would be an ending to it.

But the ending had yet to come. Agron reached up and slid his fingers into the other man's hair, cupping the back of his head if only to hold him there so that the gladiator could bear down even more, coaxing Tiberius's tongue into his mouth. The slave parted his lips in a halted, quiet moan that drew a smile from Agron - though it disappeared quickly and was replaced with an expression almost pained when the other man hooked a leg around him and pressed his hips forward. No, that was too much; Agron's grip on the slave's hair tightened and he had to pull away from the kiss, his breath leaving him in a rush. "Stop," he whispered, his free hand sliding down over Tiberius's side, following the curve of his ass and the back of his thigh and stopping there to grasp it firmly. Squeezing his eyes more tightly shut, Agron leaned his forehead against the slave's, stilling himself and taking a moment to chase away any desire he had to encourage the rocking movement of Tiberius's hips. If this went on, he'd be unable to stop himself throwing the other man to the ground and taking him right there in the shadowed alley.

Tiberius spoke softly and breathlessly into the silence. "What have you done to me?" he asked, his fingertips fluttering over Agron's chest. The gladiator shivered and another shaking breath escaped him. "When I am absent your touch I only think of when I might feel it again."

Agron could do nothing to stop it; he kissed Tiberius's lips again, and again, and between those kisses were gentle words. "Then we are both of the same mind," he said. And all the while, Agron's thoughts raced. Their time here would be short; he needed to figure out a way for them to see one another, a way that didn't rely on chance like their meeting that day had. But how? _How?_ If only they were of the same house. If only they were free men. But neither thing was true and the harsh reality was that the two should never have fallen into this infatuation.

True as that was, though, Agron could do nothing to stop it now. All he could do was try to accomplish the impossible, to find this slave in his arms again and again until the day they could somehow be together in a place where Tiberius didn't wear that slave's collar and Agron wasn't bound to the mark of brotherhood he bore.

Never had Agron allowed himself such foolish hope. There was a finality to being enslaved by the Romans. Few hoped to ever be free again but in the gladiator this hope had been sparked by something just out of his reach. Something he would be able to have and hold if only he could step from Rome's shadow. It was an all-consuming love that had started the very moment he'd looked into Tiberius's dark eyes - or perhaps it had been the moment he'd seen that skin covered in gold - or perhaps it had been the moment he'd felt the slave's lips move against his own in that first kiss. Or perhaps it had been in the nights after, when he'd collapsed after a day of training and attempted to find sleep only to be distracted by thoughts of this Tiberius, this dark-skinned stranger he knew nothing of… perhaps it had been in those nights that he'd somehow surrendered his heart.

Agron's eyes snapped open. He pulled back slightly and Tiberius looked up at him, no doubt in protest of the gladiator's lips being so far removed from his own. But there was something the gladiator needed to say. "Your dominus will ask Batiatus again for my company," he said with certainty. The Roman was obsessed, that much was clear. "You must be with him when he travels to the house of Batiatus. Promise me this."

Tiberius's brows drew together in confusion but he nodded, his trust in Agron explicit. "I promise," he said softly. It was clear that the gladiator had a plan; a grin slowly appeared on his face and there was something mischievous in his blue eyes.

"Kiss me again," Agron said, "while we still have time to taste it." Tiberius was quick to obey, enticing Agron into the kiss with a gentle bite of his bottom lip. This kiss was slower, more lingering, and it drew them both in until there was nothing else but their two bodies locked in an embrace. Something cut through the paradise they'd made themselves, though; it was that voice again, the one that would haunt Agron long after it was gone from this world, no doubt.

"Tiberius," Leddicus called firmly. With a short sound of panic, the slave pulled away from the kiss and moved to run quickly to his dominus' side - but Agron reached out and took the other man's face in his hands, stopping him and meeting that wide-eyed gaze with his own level one.

"Remember your promise," Agron whispered. He leaned forward and gently pressed a kiss to Tiberius's forehead, then took a moment to smooth the slave's hair, eliminating evidence of their heated embrace. Nodding quickly, Tiberius brushed his lips against the gladiator's one last time and then disappeared onto the street. Agron followed after a moment, peering around the corner to ensure that Leddicus was turned away and wouldn't see him emerging from the same alley Tiberius had disappeared into. He found the two men's retreating figures and kept Tiberius within his sight - and it was good he did, because right before the slave vanished into the crowd, he turned and graced Agron with a smile.

Soon, Agron walked from the alley and returned to his post, and there he would resume watch until Batiatus stepped through the doorway. The moment was not far off, though in the minutes that passed between Tiberius's departure and Batiatus' appearance, Agron was hardly acting as a bodyguard; too lost was he in his own mind and in thoughts of the slave to truly take stock of all around him. Though there was one thing in particular that he _did_ take notice of. Something he would soon address.

Batiatus stepped onto the street; whatever business he'd been conducting inside was over. "Come, Agron," he said, and began to walk. The gladiator followed close behind. "You continue to prove yourself useful," Batiatus said conversationally, his tone pleasant, and he glanced over his shoulder at the German. "Leddicus has taken a liking to you. He is a man of import, you know. Has the ear of many in Rome." For a moment, the lanista stopped walking, turning to speak to Agron face to face, if only to make sure he was listening. "I will encourage his infatuation. And you must help me do so."

Agron nodded. "Dominus," he said, and he didn't agree only for the sake of his master, no. He would use Leddicus' affection to his own advantage. An advantage that would soon be taken.

Happy with Agron's reply, Batiatus clapped him on the shoulder and then continued walking, and they were off to the next errand on the lanista's list. On the way, though, Agron swept past a merchant's booth and reached out, taking into his hand something small. Not a coin was paid for it, but no one noticed its absence, and it was slipped silently into some hidden place on Agron's person.

A plan had started taking shape in the gladiator's mind. It wouldn't be long before this plan was executed, and then Agron would find Tiberius in his arms again.


	6. Chapter 6

The wait was unbearable. Leddicus' impending visit was the only thing Agron could think of in the days following their chance meeting in the city. When would Agron be summoned to the villa, as he'd been those few times before? When would he finally be able to put his plan in motion - reckless as it was, risky as it was - and see to it that he had time alone with the Syrian slave he cared so deeply for? His anticipation was something Agron couldn't easily hide; even during training his eyes ever-wandered to the balcony above, hoping to see Batiatus standing there and gesturing for him to come inside. Duro had even managed to overcome Agron once or twice when the elder had been otherwise distracted, a fact that neither his brother nor the rest of the gladiators let Agron forget. He endured their ridicule and laughed along with them, but his heart wasn't in it. No, his heart was miles away, wherever Tiberius was.

It was in the evening a week later, right as the sun had started to dip down toward the horizon, that the call finally came. Agron was within the gladiators' barracks, sitting and talking with his brother, when Doctore approached. "Dominus summons you above," the man said, and Agron's face immediately split in a grin. It was a grin, no doubt, that Duro recognized, as it graced Agron's features whenever Tiberius was the topic of discussion. "Wash and see yourself changed."

"Have you plans toward your slave again?" Duro asked, as if he needed to. Agron only reached out and ruffled his brother's hair in reply, then stood and made his way to the bath. He scoured his skin and, when he was finished, wrapped around his waist a scant piece of linen. It left very little to the imagination but it was, no doubt, exactly what the Roman wanted. But it wasn't the only thing the gladiator donned. Around one wrist was wrapped a length of red cloth, only a simple decoration - but within its folds was hidden something small. Agron fixed and concealed it there, to be taken out when the time was right.

It wasn't long before Agron's bare feet guided him to that gate again, and the stairway beyond. This time, he knew what to expect. This time, he was prepared for what would be laid before him once he reached the villa; Leddicus would be waiting for him, no doubt in some room decorated with soft fabrics and littered with supple cushions. The oil lamps would be burning low and sending flickering light over their bodies. Not only his and the Roman's, no - but Tiberius's, too, if the slave had kept his promise.

Agron was led through the house by one of the slave girls whose name he didn't know, whose name he never bothered asking for. He had more pressing things on his mind. When finally she stopped before gesturing toward the room he was to enter, though, he did reach out and touch her arm. "Wait only a little while," he said, blue eyes searching her face, "and then bring wine. Dominus will pay it no mind." The gladiator kept his grip on her until she nodded her understanding, and then he let go, stepping forward and turning the corner into the nearby room.

The room looked much as Agron had imagined, though a few details were so extravagant that the gladiator would never have been able to dream of them. In the middle of the room was a platform built high off the ground. Upon it was laid a mattress stuffed with feathers, covered in fabrics dyed the brightest of colors, though they seemed slightly muted in the lamplight. And before the bed was a similarly decorated couch whose legs were finely carved and inlaid with pearl. It was a seat on which an emperor could have comfortably sat - but instead there lounged Leddicus, the swine. None of the disgust Agron felt toward the man showed on his face as he approached, which was a good thing. He would have the Roman believe, for now, that this was something Agron wanted.

"Here is Agron," Leddicus said, gaze dropping from the gladiator's face to travel down, no doubt taking stock of just how little the man wore. "A god among men," he added appreciatively. Agron cared nothing for his compliments, no matter how grandiose, for standing behind the couch was Tiberius, his dark eyes intent on Agron's blue ones. The gladiator might have gotten lost in those eyes had it not been for Leddicus, who stood and broke that line of sight. Agron's attention shifted; he had to remember that he was here to please the Roman. It was his sole purpose.

Leddicus gestured for Agron to come forward, and the gladiator obeyed. He stood before the Roman man and was still underneath the heavy, surveying gaze that fell upon him. Hands soon followed where eyes had traveled; Leddicus reached out and pressed his fingertips into the flesh of Agron's chest, letting them trace the muscle there before sliding down over the middle of his stomach. Without warning, the cloth was pulled from around Agron's waist and dropped at his feet, leaving him naked. For a moment, Leddicus simply stared at the flesh that had been revealed but soon shook his head, as if recovering from a reverie, and began to walk around Agron, dragging his hand over the man's arm and over his shoulder and down his back as he did so.

It was in that moment that Agron allowed himself to return his gaze to Tiberius. In the slave's dark-skinned face was something the gladiator had never seen before - the tiniest spark of jealousy. Those dark eyes were narrowed just slightly and followed the progress of his master's hand as it explored Agron's body. Despite what the gladiator was being forced to endure, despite the fact that he wanted to shy away from the Roman's slimy touch but could do no such thing, Agron couldn't help but smile to himself. He liked seeing that jealousy. He liked to know that, in some small way, Tiberius felt possessive of him. Because the gods only knew how similarly Agron felt about Tiberius. Only he wouldn't have been so controlled in his jealousy; it would have turned quickly to rage.

From behind him came Leddicus' voice. "I will have you fuck me tonight," he said, and any trace of a smile disappeared from Agron's face. Tiberius closed his eyes and the gladiator could see him taking a steadying breath. No. Agron could not let this happen. He would not. But when the Roman stepped in front of him again, he simply nodded his head, shifting his attention from Tiberius and setting what he hoped was an alluring gaze on Leddicus' repulsive face. Because it was the only thing he could do.

As if on cue, the slave girl returned with the wine Agron had requested. Leddicus gestured for Tiberius to come forward and take it from her - but before the slave could do so, Agron turned and took the jug from her and then sent her off with a nod. With the wine she had brought a fine, jeweled cup, no doubt one picked specifically to please Leddicus. And Agron hoped it would.

The Roman sat back on the couch and pulled his legs up onto it, expecting to be served. Agron approached the man slowly, pouring the wine carefully into the cup, but before handing it over to Leddicus, he boldly spoke out of turn. "May I?" he asked, holding up the jug of wine, and Leddicus looked at him quickly, no doubt surprised to hear his voice. When the Roman realized what Agron requested - only a drink of the wine - he grinned slightly and waved a hand in assent.

But Agron didn't simply stand there and drink his fill. No, he instead climbed onto the couch with Leddicus, straddling the man's thighs and kneeling above him. How quickly that got the Roman's attention; his eyes were wide and staring, his mouth open in shock, and he was so surprised he couldn't even lift his voice in protest. And as he stared, Agron hefted the jug of wine to his lips, tilting his head back and letting the liquid spill into his mouth. Some of the wine didn't quite make it down his throat; it slid from the corners of his lips and down over his chin and his neck and, finally, his chest. When he could drink no more, Agron lowered the jug and looked down at himself, slightly breathless from downing the liquid.

In a low voice, Agron spoke. "Would you sample what the house of Batiatus has to offer?" he asked, and he watched as the Roman's gaze dropped to the wine still running in rivulets over Agron's skin. Leddicus seized the opportunity; he leaned forward and slid his tongue slowly up the middle of the gladiator's stomach, careful to capture every drop of the precious wine in his mouth. And it was then that Agron revealed what was hidden upon his body.

The gladiator handed the wine to Tiberius, who stood near. The slave's hands were shaking when he took the clay jug, but Agron couldn't spare him a comforting glance. No, there was much to do as Leddicus was otherwise distracted. From the folds of the cloth wrapped around Agron's wrist, a vial was retrieved. It was tiny, small enough to be so concealed, but its contents were potent. Contents that were poured into the cup Agron held, the one filled with wine meant for Leddicus' lips. Tiberius watched all of this unfold with wide eyes, but he didn't question the gladiator when he held out the empty vial. No, the slave simply hid the evidence of what Agron had done and remained silent audience - but now accomplice.

Agron reached out with his newly freed hand and slid his fingers into Leddicus' closely-cropped hair, gripping it lightly to coax the man's head back. "How do you find the wine?" he asked, meeting the Roman's gaze.

At that, Leddicus smiled. "Delicious," he replied. Agron pulled the man's head back further, eliciting a short noise from him, and gently poured some of the cup's contents into waiting mouth. Leddicus drank it hungrily, no doubt spurred on by Agron's sudden attention, no doubt pleased by his apparent change of heart. What a fucking fool he was. Soon, the Roman took the cup from Agron's hand, then extended his other hand to stroke the gladiator's hip. "A show before I permit you take me," he practically purred, though there was nothing pleasant about it. "Get on the bed. Touch yourself."

The gladiator was quick to comply, happy to pull himself away from the other man. He could still feel that foul tongue on his skin - but it had been a necessary sacrifice. And everything had gone according to plan. Now he only had to wait for the elixir to take effect, but until then, he had orders to obey. Agron approached the bed, had to step on a stool to climb on top of it, it was so high off the ground. It was the first time he'd ever been in one. The mattress felt strange underneath him. Strange but pleasant. He couldn't imagine falling asleep on something like it, especially wrapped in all the blankets and surrounded by the pillows that were scattered on top of it. It must have been like falling to slumber on a cloud.

But he was not there to sleep. Beneath Leddicus' eager gaze, he knelt upon the mattress and slid his hand over his own skin, down his stomach sticky with wine and lower still to where his flesh lay yet unawakened by the Roman's attentions. But Agron closed his eyes and wrapped his fingers around his own length, and behind his eyelids he would find something to ignite him. Visions of Tiberius. Memories of their bodies pressed together and the feeling of the slave's lips against his own in heated, desperate kiss. Those were the things to which his body reacted; he stroked himself to hardness, and soon his skin warmed and his breath quickened.

His eyes opened. They fell first upon Leddicus, who was still drinking from his cup. The Roman did not meet his gaze but instead stared with rapt attention at the hand moving over Agron's flesh. It left the gladiator free to shift his own attention to Tiberius, whose dark eyes he did meet. He held that gaze. His lips parted and a halted moan escaped them; Tiberius drew his bottom lip between his teeth and bit down. What Agron wouldn't have given to pull the slave onto this bed and sink his teeth into that lip, too. Perhaps he soon would.

Suddenly, there was a clatter. Agron abruptly stopped in his stroking and his eyes shot to what had made the noise. There was the jeweled cup, now empty its contents, laying on its side on the floor. Leddicus' hand hovered above it, hanging off the side of the couch, and the man himself was still, his eyes closed. Agron's heart beat fast in his chest. He'd done it. He'd fucking done it. But when he turned a smile upon Tiberius, the slave did not seem to share his joy. Instead, his expression was twisted into one of horror as he looked at his dominus.

"Did you kill him?" he asked in a harsh whisper. No wonder he was terrified.

At that, Agron laughed. "He sleeps," the gladiator said gently. Tiberius visibly relaxed. Though what he had done was reckless, Agron wasn't so stupid as to murder a man within these walls. What he had poured into Leddicus' drink had been a sleep serum, something he'd heard the apothecary on the street advertise the day he'd been in Capua. The plan had all fallen into place that day, though the details had never been absolutely sure; how he would get Leddicus to ingest the elixir had been a mystery to the gladiator until he'd seen the man's eyes on his body. And then the solution had been clear.

Now he and Tiberius were left alone. Leddicus wouldn't soon wake. "Come," Agron said, reaching out his hand. Tiberius hesitated but soon put down the jug in his hands and slowly approached the bed on which Agron still knelt. The slave took Agron's hand and stepped on the stool, and that brought him level with the gladiator, who shuffled to the edge of the bed. "He will sleep through the night," Agron whispered, wrapping his arms around Tiberius. He held the other man's body close, so very close - close enough that he could feel Tiberius's heartbeat quicken in his chest. "No sound or touch will wake him." The slave's touch slid up over Agron's arms: a touch infinitely better than what the gladiator had felt before. Brushing his lips against Tiberius's cheek, Agron spoke into the other man's ear, his voice low. "Will you come to my bed?"

Tiberius glanced over his shoulder at Leddicus' prone figure and then looked back at Agron. "He will not rouse?" the slave asked, concern lining his face. The gladiator reached up to gently smooth away that worry.

"He will not," Agron repeated. And then, without another word, Tiberius pressed himself against the gladiator, capturing his lips in a kiss so forceful it pushed him onto his back. They would both easily forget that there was another within that very room; they were together and beneath them was a luxury they'd never felt before and they had the entire night to indulge in one another. Nothing, not even Leddicus' presence, unconscious though he was, would take this away from them.

Agron was already naked and he longed to feel Tiberius's skin against his. As they kissed, he reached down and quickly divulged the slave of his clothes, his hands immediately dragging down the other man's sides, following the curve of his back and then grabbing the flesh of his ass to pull those hips against his own. They groaned simultaneously at the contact and, with Agron's encouragement, Tiberius rocked his hips forward, sliding his flesh against the gladiator's even as they kissed. Whatever small ember had been ignited within Agron when he'd only thought of Tiberius, his hand stroking his own flesh, was now stoked into a raging fire, given breath and fuel by the body moving against him.

Tiberius pulled away the kiss and gasped for breath, his lips still hovering over Agron's. "I have been absent you inside of me for too long," he whispered, voice shaking. "I will wait no longer." There was a table near by and upon it stood bottles of oils, no doubt meant for the time Agron was supposed to have spent with Leddicus, but they would go to better use now. Tiberius snatched one up and coated his own hands in it, reaching behind himself and wrapped slickened fingers around Agron's cock. The gladiator hissed at the sensation, his eyes closing and his head tilting back - but it was nothing compared to what came next.

Suddenly, Tiberius was lowering himself onto that hardened length, taking no time to prepare himself for the invasion. It was so impossibly tight that it drew a long moan from Agron's lips and he roughly grasped the slave's thighs, his fingertips digging in. When the head of Agron's length finally breached the ring of tight muscle, Tiberius let out the breath he'd been holding and, for a moment, lay still against Agron, giving his body the time to adjust that it needed. The gladiator's touch wandered the body on top of his own and he occupied himself with memorizing every last inch of the other man if only to resist the urge to thrust his hips, to start a rhythm, to feel his flesh move deeper.

But it wasn't long before he got exactly what he wanted. Tiberius lifted himself up, pressed his palms flat against Agron's chest, and slowly pushed back onto the gladiator, taking him inside. The pace was torturous; as soon as Tiberius had sat back fully he began to rise again, millimeter by merciless millimeter and Agron was taking in harsh breaths, his nails digging into the slave's skin. But with every thrust, the pace increased. Faster and faster Tiberius moved until he'd found that perfect rhythm, quick and forceful. The air was filled with the sounds of their lovemaking; they both gasped and moaned and underneath their voices was the dull noise of the impact of flesh against flesh.

Agron sat up and wrapped his arms around the other man, his mouth dragging over Tiberius's throat and over his chin to find his lips in another kiss, missing the taste of him. Still the slave rode him with abandon, _taking_ the pleasure as he hadn't the first time they'd laid together. It was a new side of Tiberius, one Agron had never known - and he knew there was more and more he could find out, if only he had the time. But like he had that night, Agron would _make_ the time. He would go to the ends of the earth for it. He would accept nothing less than holding this slave in his arms for the remainder of his life, however short it might be.

The gladiator's hand was between them, his fingers curled around Tiberius's length and stroking it, his grip tight. And as the moments passed, Tiberius began to move with more desperation. His body was conflicted; he wanted to roll his hips and take Agron inside of him _deeper_ , but he wanted to feel his own flesh slide into that hand. And, oh, how Agron loved to watch the struggle on his face. How he reveled in that body shaking in his arms, how he delighted in the frenzy Tiberius was building himself up to. And how he would savor the release soon to come. But it would not be Tiberius's only one. Agron would see to that.

As predicted, Tiberius soon found his end. He cried out, shook against the gladiator, clutched at him but never stopped the movement of his hips, not even in the throes of the intense pleasure that ripped through him. Agron, merciful as he was in the wake of that intense release, stopped the other man's thrusting, sliding gentle hands over twitching muscles and whispering soft words into a sweet kiss. But despite his body's exhaustion, Tiberius was not finished. "More," was the only word he whimpered in reply, right against Agron's lips, and the plea shot through the gladiator in a jolt of arousal. More was something he could give. It was something he would give in abundance.

With strong arms, Agron pulled the smaller man's body off of him and laid him down on the bed on his stomach. Tiberius collapsed against it and the gladiator had to wonder if maybe he wouldn't simply fall asleep there - but when Agron straddled him, pressed the tip of his length against that opening once more, the slave arched his back and parted his lips in a breathless moan that only begged, again, for more. Agron leaned over the other man, pressed his hands down on the mattress to brace himself, and then slowly pushed inside of Tiberius once more. And now it was his turn to set the pace. He made it slow, but there was strength behind it. Agron would rock his hips forward and Tiberius would shift on the mattress beneath him, his body sliding over it with the force of the thrust. And every time their bodies were joined, not the smallest measure of space between them, from Tiberius's throat would escape a short, gasping moan.

And as Agron's thrusts sped up, so did the sounds falling from the slave's lips. The gladiator drove forward, pushed Tiberius closer and closer to another release, and so soon after he'd recovered from his first one. Leaning down, Agron gently grazed the other man's ear with his teeth and then whispered into it. "Will you come again?" he asked, and though he needed no answer - the response of Tiberius's body was enough on its own - the slave let out a whimper that could only mean 'yes'.

Agron's own release was not far off, but he would have the other man trembling beneath him again. Tiberius clawed at the blankets beneath him, pushing himself back as Agron's hips jerked forward demanding more and more until— He stilled beneath the gladiator's body for only a moment and then, suddenly, he was writhing and moaning for the second time, his sounds almost pained. The slave grabbed for Agron's nearby hand and the gladiator gave it to him; their fingers twined together in a grip hard enough to hurt, but neither cared. Certainly not Agron, who was thrusting his way toward his own release. The gladiator bared his teeth against Tiberius's shoulder, closed his eyes tightly, and soon emptied himself inside of the other man. His bared teeth grazed Tiberius's skin and then sank into it, hard enough to bruise and mark him but not to draw blood.

And so it was over. Both were spent, exhausted, satisfied. Agron pulled away only to draw the other man into his arms soon after, their bodies lost in blankets and sinking into the soft mattress beneath them. It would be an easy enough story to tell; Leddicus had had too much of the strong wine and had fallen asleep just as Tiberius had been ordered onto the bed with Agron. The gladiator wanted to tell Tiberius the story but he had been robbed of strength and speech and sleep crept up on him. He managed to press his lips against the other man's in just a few more kisses, but no more than that; the slave was already falling asleep in his embrace.

Leddicus would sleep beyond the dawn but both Agron and Tiberius would rise before then, and they would have time to talk then. And in the waking hours of the day, just before the sun rose above the horizon again, they would whisper alibis and promises and declarations, their bodies still naked and tangled and their eyes bright with mischief and what the future would hold.


	7. Chapter 7

"More wine, Tiberius."

The slave blinked his dark eyes and shifted his gaze to his dominus, who held out an empty clay jug. Immediately, Tiberius reached out and took the container from his master's grip, and just the weight of the thing in his hands reminded him of his gladiator - the one he'd left those many mornings ago after spending the night in his arms. The one he could barely cease thinking of. Was it the same with Agron, Tiberius wondered? Was he reminded of the time they'd spent together, even by the most mundane things? And did the gladiator lay awake at night, remembering what it had been like to stir with the sun, to open his eyes and see beside him a body tangled in brightly colored blankets? Did he recall the feeling of skin warm with sleep and pressed against his own? Could he still taste searching lips brushing over his and coaxing them into something deeper?

Tiberius remembered. He replayed those waking moments in his mind over and over. But sometimes, when he was missing the gladiator's touch, he wondered if maybe he'd invented the whole thing. He wondered if maybe Agron had never been real, and it was all in his mind, some escape from reality and into a world in which he was loved. A world in which he loved in return. But when he wondered, when he was so close to convincing himself that it had all been a dream, he only needed to steal into his room and rummage through his scant few belongings to find a tiny glass vial, empty its contents. It was the only physical proof he had of the gladiator, evidence of a grievous crime Agron (and Tiberius, in his part) had committed against Leddicus, and though it should have been destroyed to protect them both, the slave couldn't bring himself to do so. He needed it for when this doubt crept upon him.

Bare feet took up well-trodden path to the store of wine within the villa. The empty jug was put gently on the floor and a full one was taken from the shelf. Tiberius uncorked it and smelled its contents, making sure it hadn't soured, and when it passed the inspection, he started back the same way he'd come. It was all so second nature that he could lose himself in thoughts of Agron again: his blue eyes, the way his cheeks dimpled when he smiled, the tiny pause he always took before kissing Tiberius, as if giving the slave a moment to catch his breath before it was stolen from his lungs by soft lips.

But Tiberius was distracted from these thoughts when he approached his dominus again. Leddicus was entertaining someone, the owner of a nearby villa, and the Roman's voice was raised to deliver the latest gossip. Normally, it was of no interest to the slave, and he paid it no mind, but this time, he was drawn into the man's words by a name that passed his lips: Batiatus. The name of Agron's dominus and the owner of the ludus.

"But surely it must have reached ears here," the Roman man said, "what happened in the house of Batiatus only days ago." Leddicus, who was holding out his cup for Tiberius to fill, shook his head and silently urged the man to continue. "The slaves rose up," the man said, sitting forward in his couch, his eyes wide. How pleased he seemed to be the one to deliver news of this. "They killed all that stood within the walls of that house. Sextus, Batiatus, countless others. You must have _heard_."

"No word traveled here," Leddicus replied, shock lacing his tone. And beside the dominus, Tiberius had stilled, his body poised in pouring his master more wine. The liquid streamed slowly into the cup, filling it to the brim and then spilling over, but the slave was blind to it. His wide, dark eyes saw nothing. He was lost within his mind, the Roman's words echoing in it. _The slaves rose up… killed all that stood within the walls…_ He didn't understand. He didn't know what this meant. Agron. Had Agron been a part of this? What had happened? If all had died, what of the slaves? The gladiators that had lived within the ludus? Tiberius dare not ask aloud but not knowing would be a torture he'd never before felt. A panic was rising inside of him, tightening his chest, and his grip was so tight on the bottle of wine that the clay threatened to crack beneath his fingers.

" _Tiberius!_ " Leddicus' hissing voice drew him out of his thoughts, and only then did the slave realize the mess he'd made. His breath left him in a rushed, "Apologies, dominus," and he hastened to correct his mistake, finding a cloth to mop up the wasted wine. For the briefest of seconds, Tiberius met Leddicus' eyes, and the Syrian found they were narrowed at him in a hard expression. Tiberius soon fled from that gaze, rags dripping with wine in his hands, but he lingered just out of sight. Only for a moment. If Leddicus had found him there it would have been his head, but Tiberius went mercifully unnoticed for the moment he delayed. He remained because he had no know the rest of the story. He had to know what fate had befallen the slaves.

And the Roman was anxious to continue spouting the gossip. "Batiatus' gladiators escaped," the man said. "There is talk of a slave revolt with Spartacus at the helm." There was more, but Tiberius heard none of it. He moved quickly away, weaving through the villa to find privacy in his own room. There, he dropped the soiled rags to the floor and simply stood there, lips still parted in shock and mind whirring. What did all of this mean?

The slave recalled a conversation he'd had with Chadara. She'd spoken of the possibility of Agron gaining his freedom through glory in the arena. She'd spoken of the possibility of the gladiator coming and taking him away from here; only then had he ever thought of shrugging off the shackles of slavery. Only then had he ever thought of ripping the collar from around his neck and finding freedom in Agron's arms. But this was different. Agron might have escaped his slavery, but he was a man hunted now. One of those responsible for the deaths of many Romans, important men - and such a thing would not go unanswered. That was not the freedom Tiberius had dreamed of, but…

His first instinct was to somehow flee the villa. To leave and join Agron wherever he and the rest of the escaped slaves were. But what a foolish notion that was! Here he had station. His position was a good one, for a slave - surely better than the rebels that no doubt now fled from the armies of Rome. That would be his fate, too, if he joined them. Would he endure that to be with Agron? Would he give up life here, where things were secure and safe, to become part of the rebellion? A rebellion led by Spartacus, the Bringer of Rain.

He was quickly decided. Wherever Agron was - that was where Tiberius wanted to be. The gladiator occupied his waking and sleeping mind and all Tiberius ever wished for was Agron's touch, the man's voice in his ear whispering declarations the likes of which had been offered the slave when they'd lain together in that bed covered in rich fabrics as the dark had turned to dawn. It would be impossible to escape his longing for Agron, so he would have to fulfill his desire and see himself to those arms again. But how would Tiberius fly from this place? His absence would be one quickly noticed. There was much he did, a majority of it for the dominus himself, so when would he slip away? Maybe in the night, when Leddicus slept.

Tiberius closed his eyes and lifted a hand, covering his mouth to quiet a long, steadying breath. When had he started trembling? It must have been the second he'd starting thinking of becoming part of this rebellion. It was a terrifying thought, especially for someone who had been a slave all his life. It was no easy thing, making the decision to abandon everything he knew, and all for the sake of being with his gladiator. Freedom was such a foreign concept, one Tiberius could hardly grasp, and even more difficult to wrap his mind around was the idea of escape. The idea of marking himself a fugitive. Panic was rising in him again, but this time for a different reason. "Agron," he whispered, hoping the sound of the man's name would help calm him and chase away troubled thoughts. It did, for only a moment.

But the peace he'd so briefly found did not remain. Suddenly, he was grabbed from behind, a rough hand grasping onto his hair and pulling. Tiberius let out a short cry of pain and twisted his body, turning to face his attacker. He'd raised his hands to defend himself, they faltered when his eyes fell upon the one holding him.

Leddicus.

The Roman's face was a mask of rage. "Are you so lost in thoughts of your gladiator that you do not heed call?" he asked, his tone venomous. Tiberius parted lips to apologize but his voice was stolen from him when Leddicus' hand twisted in his hair, pulling it, nearly ripping it from his head. Tiberius swallowed any noise of pain that would follow the first one; his dominus wouldn't be allowed to see that weakness in him. "What fucking romance," the dominus mocked. "Do you think he will come and grant you freedom?" Leddicus used his grip on the slave's hair to force him to his knees on the floor. "He would not risk life for you. You ignorant shit. None would."

How easily Leddicus planted the seed of doubt within Tiberius's mind. No, Agron had not come yet. Perhaps he never meant to. But the things the gladiator had said… The things they'd shared… A voice in the back of Tiberius's mind sounded softly, but with each passing second grew louder. _You know nothing of love. Words spoken in passion may not have held truth. This revolt will not come to a halt just for you. You were a body soft and willing. A prize to victorious gladiator. No more._

And perhaps those words were ones that had always lurked just beneath the surface. Fears never realized in the wake of foolish hopes and foolish joy. That voice in his head - it sounded strangely like Leddicus - banished to a small corner the thought of escape, the hope of finding Agron and being with him. Though the notion wasn't crushed, it was made insignificant in the shadow of this crippling insecurity. And all because of those few words spoken by the dominus.

Leddicus was all Tiberius had ever known. The only truth he'd known. And though that tiny part of him wanted to have faith in the gladiator instead, it could not hold up against the years Tiberius had spent under his dominus' thumb.

The Roman shoved Tiberius forward, releasing his hair, but he did not retreat. No, he crouched beside the slave and reached out, grabbing his chin roughly in one hand and staring him in the eyes. "See thoughts of the gladiator and his fucking rebellion from mind," Leddicus said. His fingers dug in, the grip bruising. "Speak not a single word of it to another. Nod that you understand, slave."

Tiberius nodded.

"Make attempt to leave these walls," the man continued, "and see head removed from body." Leddicus drew back his arm and although Tiberius saw the blow coming, he could do nothing to stop it. He was backhanded across the face, the force of the impact cutting the inside of his lip against his teeth. "Ignore me again in favor of daydreams of _Agron_ ," he said, the gladiator's name dripping from his lips like poison, "and suffer the same."

The slave was silent and unmoving in the wake of his master's rage. Leddicus stood and Tiberius thought he meant to leave, but instead he reached out and took from atop a nearby table a small box Tiberius had been allowed to keep his possessions in. He reached inside and then withdrew his hand, fingers wrapped around something small. Tiberius didn't know what it was until it was thrown at him.

The small glass vial landed safely in the Tiberius's lap and his heart stopped. He trembled as he lifted his dark gaze to look at his dominus.

"I granted mercy once," Leddicus said. "But not again. Remember that you are mine."

The man disappeared. Tiberius reached out with shaking fingers and closed them around the vial.

Perhaps he would be able to convince himself that Agron had been a dream, after all.

* * *

Agron paid little attention the conversation between Spartacus and Crixus. They spoke of trivial things, of villas in the south, of places that Naevia may or may not have been. All Agron wanted in that moment was the blood of Romans on his hands, and that would not be achieved if they followed the fucking Gaul to his end. The whole of the army of Rome would fall to Agron's sword for what they had done. This he had decided the second his brother had been taken from him. And yet the chance to make this so had been taken from him.

The gladiator closed his eyes and leaned back against the stone wall, closing his ears to the sounds of the sewer around him and the sounds of the other men's voices. Again, the scene played through his mind. The moment of Duro's death at the hands of a Roman soldier. He revisited it often and felt the pain of it anew every time. Agron still heard his brother's scream of pain and still could feel the weight of him in his arms; that weight somehow grew heavier when life had fled Duro's body. So many other lives had been lost even after that. Aurelia's corpse was nearby, growing colder in death granted her by the Romans. They would not find vengeance for the fallen in the south, but that was where they were headed. The decision had been made.

Suddenly, Agron opened his eyes. For a moment, he wasn't sure why. His gaze slid to where Crixus and Spartacus sat, making plans, and then parted his lips to speak. "Wait," he said, his brows drawing together in confusion. He knew not why he spoke, but still he'd been compelled to. The other gladiators stopped and turned toward him, no doubt expecting more resistance toward their plans. But when Spartacus saw the expression on Agron's face, his own look of annoyance softened.

"Agron?" he questioned simply, patiently. The Gaul was less patient, shifting where he sat and scowling, but wouldn't speak against Spartacus yet.

Crixus was the one Agron turned his attention to, though. There was a panic rising in the German, though from where, he had no idea. His mouth spoke without mind behind it, not yet, because it hadn't yet caught up. "What did you just say?" he asked, slowly climbing to his feet. He felt everything more keenly then, somehow. The stone behind him that had only been stone before was now cold, textured, like he'd lost the ability before to feel but it was now returning to him. Both Spartacus and Crixus glanced at one another, perplexed by Agron's question. He asked it again, louder this time. "What did you just say?" His heart was beating fast in his chest. He felt that more keenly, too.

Finally, an answer. The Gaul briefly bared his teeth in irritation and then spoke through them. "When we move south will we come first upon the villa of a man called Leddicus—"

"Leddicus," Agron repeated, interrupting. Something in his mind shifted into place. Something that had been knocked loose, perhaps, in the wake of Duro's death. Something he'd forgotten in his grief. "Leddicus," he repeated, and his voice was shaking. Spartacus was standing now, and he reached out to steady Agron where he stood. A question came to the Thracian's lips but before he could ask, Agron spoke again. "I know him," the German whispered. His eyes were wide and unblinking as memories rushed back to him, ones to fill a mind empty and hollow save the memory of when Duro had fallen. "Tiberius," Agron continued, his voice pained. " _Tiberius_."

Spartacus knew enough of the slave to understand what Agron spoke of. "He is Tiberius's dominus," the Thracian said slowly, searching the other gladiator's face. And how all the pain and anger had disappeared to make way for absolute desperation.

Agron grasped at Spartacus's shoulders, his grip too tight. "We must find Tiberius," he whispered, and he seemed almost on the verge of madness. Vengeance was suddenly forgotten. Thoughts toward staying and fighting the Romans were abandoned. Duro's death would be avenged but not before Agron had Tiberius safe in his arms. He hated himself in that moment. He hated himself for forgetting the slave. So consumed by sadness and rage had he been that everything else he'd ever known had fled him except for how to wield a sword and how to strike against the Romans for what they had done. But now he remembered. Now he longed for that embrace, for there he would find comfort. There, he would find relief. There, he would find the heart he thought he'd lost.

"We will find him," Spartacus promised. He, too, grasped Agron's shoulder, but in a touch meant to soothe troubled thoughts. "We move South take the villa and there you and he will be free men together. It is deserved fate." The Thracian glanced toward Crixus, who had also stood. "And there we will begin our search for Naevia."

Agron looked to the Gaul. For once, they stood together in something. Just as Crixus would for Naevia, Agron would cut through any man that came between him and Tiberius. And when he got his hands on Leddicus, that Roman shit would suffer and beg for mercy by the end.


	8. Chapter 8

Agron insisted he be the first over the wall. He didn't know or care who scaled it beside him; he wanted to be the first to set foot on the ground within that villa. He wanted to spill the first blood. He wanted to make his way through the Roman's home and find his way to Tiberius as quickly as humanly possible. Too long had he waited to find the slave; too long had he let his mind stray from thoughts of him; too long had Tiberius been forced to live under Leddicus' roof. But no longer. He would be freed by Agron's hands and by his sword, and Leddicus would be parted from his life.

He was silent, no more than a shadow when feet found purchase on the sand within, and no sooner had he infiltrated the villa than the first guard was killed. Agron's sword cut the man's throat open, severing the vocal cords so that he couldn't scream his way to the afterlife and alert anyone of the rebellion's presence there. The other guard posted by the doorway to the outside met a similar fate and when Agron was finished, he strode to the wide, wooden doors and threw them open to allow the rest of the rebels entrance.

All was done within a matter of seconds. There was no manic joy in Agron at the killings, not like before, not when he'd been driven mad by grief over Duro. He had purpose beyond revenge now, and it focused him. He was no less merciless, but he wouldn't allow himself to be distracted by vengeance, at least not until Tiberius was in his arms and Leddicus was on his knees. Then he could let the rage back in. Then he could remember what he'd suffered at the hands of people just like the useless Roman shit that lived within these walls, and then he could rip the life fro Leddicus with his bare hands.

The villa was lost the moment the rebels stepped foot within it. All that stood in their path were slain. None stood a chance against the trained blades of the gladiators. Agron was first to enter the house itself; a guard ran at him and he, with his free hand, grabbed the man's throat, stopping his approach abruptly before slamming him down into the nearby pool. The man's head cracked open against the tile and the water in the pool began to slowly turn red. Agron didn't remain to see it, though. There was more to be done. He moved further into the house, his expression set and determined - at least, until a hand reached out and stopped him. He raised his sword but stopped short when he saw that it was not foe but friend that halted his progress. Or perhaps 'friend' was too kind a word.

"We will both look for the dominus," Crixus said, his grip tight on Agron's upper arm. "If you find him first, do not send him to the afterlife before I have had chance to break words." The Gaul's dark eyes were intent on the other man's blue ones, commanding attention and obedience. "He will know of Naevia's fate. Rob me of that information and I rob you of your cock." Agron had to clench his teeth against a reply. Instead, he ripped his arm from the other gladiator's grasp and then, with a frustrated noise, parted ways with him. He didn't appreciate being told to heel - but the rational part of him knew that what Crixus had said made sense. They both had a mission within this villa, and it wouldn't be right for Agron to deny Crixus the completion of his.

Noise within the villa was dying down. The slaves that did not resist were all being driven toward the courtyard, no doubt where Spartacus and the rest stood in the wake of their victory in taking the villa. But still Leddicus and Tiberius were nowhere to be found. Agron had to explore deeper, lose himself down endless corridors and look into each and every room he passed and for a fleeting, terrifying moment, he wondered if maybe they weren't there. He wondered if maybe this was the wrong villa, or perhaps Leddicus had taken Tiberius away and all of this was in vain.

But no - there was movement at the end of the corridor. A shadow on the wall too large to be that of just one man. Agron's footsteps quickened and he tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, the blade raised as he turned the corner in preparation to strike the snake of a Roman down before he could issue forth any poison - but he came to an abrupt stop, the gladius faltering in his hand. There stood Leddicus, but not within reach of Agron's weapon, no; the Roman stood behind Tiberius and had pressed against the slave's throat a silver dagger that gleamed in the lamplight.

"So this is what you have come for," Leddicus sneered. His free arm was wrapped tightly around Tiberius's middle, keeping the slave's body close to his own. Agron's gaze slid from the knife to Tiberius's wide, dark eyes - eyes that were fixed on the gladiator and held many varied emotions. There was relief. Disbelief. Terror. And beneath those, defiance.

"Do him harm and I will rip your heart from fucking chest," Agron threatened, his attention shifting to Leddicus. He stepped forward but as he did, the Roman put pressure on that dagger, just enough to cut Tiberius's skin. The slave didn't wince, but from that small wound blood flowed. Tiberius bled at the hand of this piece of _shit_ \- and that was when Agron began to notice other things the slave had endured. His lip was split; the injury was old but still healing. There were bruises on the man's skin, darkening it further to deep purples and blues in the shapes of fingertips, of hands. Tiberius had suffered underneath this dominus.

The rage that surged through Agron was unlike anything he'd ever felt before, save that briefest of moments when he'd swung his sword at the head of the Roman soldier that had stabbed Duro, cleaving it from his neck. That rage must have shown in the gladiator's face, because Leddicus seemed to cower beneath it, to wither slightly though his hold on the slave never loosened. "I will leave my fucking house," Leddicus hissed, "unscathed. Or I will cut your precious slave's throat."

And so they were at a standstill, and Agron didn't know what to do. He couldn't advance; if he did, Tiberius would die. He couldn't retreat; if he did, he would never see the slave again. It was an impossible choice to make. Would Tiberius die at his dominus' hand or suffer a lifetime beneath it? The choice should have never fallen upon Agron. He found himself unable to make it. But it seemed as though Tiberius had done it for him. The slave's dark eyes had hardened and he caught Agron's gaze and held it and then, almost imperceptibly, nodded. The gladiator had no time to figure out what that meant, because suddenly, Tiberius was moving. With a noise like the hissing of a cat, the slave shoved himself backwards, throwing Leddicus off-balance. The dagger left a long cut on Tiberius's neck but didn't stop there; when the Roman's hand was thrown backwards the blade slid over Leddicus' own cheek, slicing it open. The sound that left the dominus' twisted lips was one of pain and of anger and, without a second's hesitation, the man raised the knife and lunged at Tiberius.

But there was the singing of steel through the air and the dagger clattered to the floor, and with it several of Leddicus' fingers. And before the Roman could drop to his knees, unable to stand as that pain tore through him, Agron grabbed him by the throat and pushed him against the wall. The gladiator's grip tightened and tightened, cutting off the Roman shit's air and though Agron would have loved to revel in the sight of the man's face turning blue, he saw nothing. His rage blinded him to everything but the image of that blood sliding down Tiberius's neck and the bruises that mottled his skin. And Agron would have killed Leddicus had it not been for the hands that forced his fingers from around that throat and pulled him away.

Agron struggled. He bared his teeth and he raged despite the fact that he had no idea who he raged against. There was a ringing in his ears that would only be chased away by noise of Leddicus' last gasping breath escaping his body - but someone was calling his name. It sounded distant at first. Echoing. And then it got closer and clearer until, finally, all the noises within that room rushed back to him and he could see again. Leddicus was gasping for air, slumped against the ground with his mangled hand clutched against his chest. Crixus stood before him, weapon unsheathed but unneeded, as the Roman couldn't move to escape. And Agron found himself in the arms of both Spartacus and Donar and the Thracian was saying his name again, demanding his attention.

"Calm yourself, brother!" the leader of the rebellion demanded. With that, Agron ceased his struggle, too disoriented by being pulled from his rage to properly protest. And that was when his gaze shifted and fell upon the last man in the room, and any remaining fight fled him. Lips parting and a relieved, desperate sound escaping him, Agron pushed both Donar and Spartacus away and found his feet again. He reached out and Tiberius stepped forward, and Agron's fingertips brushed his cheek. The slave's hand was pressed against his neck and Agron could see blood there; his heartbeat raced and he gently pulled that hand away to take stock of the wound. It was only a shallow thing, easily cleaned and quickly healed and there was that relief again, making the gladiator's breath catch in his throat. How foreign the feeling was, when recently he'd only felt a searing anger toward Rome and nothing toward anything else.

The gladiator's fingers dropped from Tiberius's cheek and curled slightly around the leather collar that circled the slave's neck. His brows buckling, Agron took hold of the collar and, in one swift motion, ripped it from Tiberius and let it fall to the floor. The slave - no, the former slave - let out a short breath at the other man's sudden movement… and at the sudden freedom. Tiberius lifted his gaze and, for the first time, they looked at one another as free men.

And then for the first time tasted one another as free men. They both moved forward in the same moment and their lips crashed together in a kiss full of the things left unsaid in the time they'd been apart. Agron's fingers were lost in the tangles of the Syrian's dark hair and Tiberius had a hold on the gladiator's face and for a long time, they simply kissed. Not a word had passed between them but there was no need, because they traveled from mouth to mouth in kisses and gentle breaths.

They were too soon parted when the Gaul's voice interrupted them. "Remove yourself from fucking sight," Crixus demanded, and Agron reluctantly pulled away from Tiberius, turning narrowed eyes to the other gladiator. And beyond the gladiator sat Leddicus, who glared at the two of them with an expression so twisted in made rage that he looked inhuman. How Agron regretted not killing him when he'd had the chance - but now was Crixus's change to find out where Naevia was, and Agron could no longer touch the Roman. The German glanced at Spartacus, perhaps to ask leave, and received a nod in return, and then took Tiberius's hand in his own.

"Come," he said, and led the Syrian from the room. But before they got far, he realized he wasn't sure where within the villa he was - something Tiberius surely would have been more knowledgeable about. "Something to clean your wound?" he requested, lifting a hand to gently touch the Syrian's chin, tilting his head just slightly to glance at the cut on his neck. Tiberius nodded and used their clasped hands to tug the gladiator along through long corridors until they came to the smallest of rooms, one clearly meant for a slave. Tiberius's room, perhaps. The Syrian was strangely silent as he gathered things on a nearby table - a bowl, a jug of water, a cut of cloth - and sat on a stool beside it.

Agron stepped forward and extended a hand, running his fingers through the other man's hair. Gently, he coaxed Tiberius's head back, further exposing his neck and the cut he'd suffered there, and with his free hand, the gladiator poured water into the bowl and dipped cloth into it. And as he gingerly wiped away the blood, he spoke. "Did you believe I would come?" he asked, breaking the silence between them. He only hoped he would hear Tiberius's voice in return; it had been long since the tone of it had touched his ears.

There was a pause, but then, finally, Tiberius spoke, though his words were soft. "I would sometimes trick my mind into believing," he said, "but twisted words from hateful lips would turn me from hope." They both knew of whom the Syrian spoke. But Agron would admit to the Roman not deserving all of the blame.

"I should have come sooner," he whispered. The cut on the other man's neck was clean and would heal fast enough. Agron's hand lingered in that dark hair, though, fingertips gently sliding over Tiberius's scalp in a tender touch. How the Syrian must have suffered in the time it had taken Agron to come back to himself and remember what was most important to him. How they had both suffered when they had been apart. The loss of his brother still loomed near to Agron, though overshadowed, for now, by the return of Tiberius to his arms. The memory of Duro's death wouldn't remain there forever, though. Nor, Agron knew, would the things troubling Tiberius - things Agron knew nothing of but things to which he could connect those bruises and the split lip.

Tiberius lifted his gaze and met Agron's, parted his lips to say something, but before he could say a word, a different voice rang through the villa. Agron recognized it immediately as the fucking Gaul's. He was _screaming_ , and with a small, frustrated growl, Agron moved to listen. Tiberius followed close behind, and they soon found themselves in a large room that echoed with Crixus's shouts. "The Roman refuses to loosen fucking tongue!" he yelled. The man paced, rippling with rage. "He knows of Naevia's fate but he will say nothing of it." And before anyone could reply, he moved close to Spartacus, who was nearby. "We do not step from these walls until words flow from his foul mouth like blood from fucking wound," the Gaul hissed, voice lowering, and he paused as if daring anyone to oppose him. When no protest was raised, he turned and left, back in the direction of the room in which they'd left Leddicus.

Spartacus then spoke both to Agron and to Donar, who was also in the room. "We make camp here," the Thracian said. "Until news of Naevia reaches Crixus's ear or the Roman dies." With a nod, Donar disappeared, no doubt to tell the others. Agron remained where he was, but did move to slide his arm around Tiberius's shoulders, keeping him close. At the touch, the Syrian raised his head, and Agron lowered his own so they could look at one another. Though they remained within the house Tiberius had been a slave to, the gladiator was determined to chase away nightmares of it. And soon enough, they would be gone forever from this place, and it was then that the two would find real and true freedom in each other's arms, neither burdened by memories that would haunt them.


	9. Chapter 9

Within those walls, nightmares came. Neither was free of them; the peace they'd hoped to find within each other's arms eluded them still. Before Agron had closed his eyes to sleep, Tiberius's body pressed close to his own, he'd felt the man twitch in his sleep, had heard a harsh breath escape from between parted lips. Their limbs had been tangled; Agron had done his best to tighten his hold on the other man in the hopes that it would chase away whatever vision haunted him, but still Tiberius had been restless. And then Agron had fallen into unconsciousness and into his own hell.

Had he slept since Duro's death? He couldn't remember. All he could recall since was closing his eyes and finding the image of his brother's glassy and lifeless gaze burned on the backs of his eyelids. That wasn't sleep. It wasn't rest. No, there had been no rest for him. He found some now, though, within that villa and with Tiberius breathing deeply in sleep next to him, but perhaps it would have been better if he hadn't. He dreamed of Duro. Of taking that Roman sword in his place. Saving him, as he should have. And when that was over, when in his dream he closed his eyes in death, he opened them to the same scene again - except this time, Duro died. Grotesquely. In more ways than one. Agron needed to be reminded that his brother was gone and nothing - no dreaming, no wishing - would change that. When Agron awoke, it was still dark and his heart was beating too quickly.

Tiberius was awake beside him, head pressed against Agron's chest where, no doubt, the Syrian could hear the rapid thumping of the other's heart. That head lifted and, through the darkness, they looked at one another. Neither knew what the other _had_ suffered, only that they had suffered. Tiberius sat up next to Agron and leaned over the gladiator, reaching out and cradling the side of his face. "Sadness is like a weight upon you," Tiberius said in a whisper. There was no need; they were the only two in the room, the small chamber in which Tiberius had lived when he'd been a slave in the villa. Agron had asked if he wanted to stay somewhere else but Tiberius had insisted upon this place, if only for its privacy.

Agron wanted to close his eyes and enjoy the feeling of that gentle touch but he knew what would be waiting behind his eyelids if he did. So instead he, too, sat up, but slid his hand over Tiberius's to keep it where it was. It would anchor him to what was real, what was now. Now he had his Syrian in his arms and they were both free. The gods had shown some small bit of mercy in that. "A weight less felt when you are near," he answered.

The entire tale was on the tip of his tongue. He could part lips and tell Tiberius everything, share the burden of blame he felt but he could not. Not yet, not so soon, because Tiberius still bore marks left upon him by Leddicus and he still had nightmares that drew sounds from him as he slept. Tiberius suffered enough; he didn't need more sadness. In time, perhaps. In time, Tiberius would know all there was of Duro, both his life and the way he had died.

For now, Agron only leaned forward and pressed a kiss against Tiberius's waiting mouth. It would quiet any questions the Syrian might have, questions that Agron could not yet answer. At first, Tiberius seemed unsure - perhaps he could tell he was being silenced - but with gentle coaxing of lips and tongue leaned into the kiss, the hand on Agron's face sliding back into his hair and pulling him closer. They could get lost in a kiss. Agron felt nothing but the pressure of the mouth against his own and the fingernails dragging along the back of his neck and for a sweet moment he was burdened with nothing.

The moment didn't last. A hand suddenly and violently pushed aside the curtain that hung in the doorway and there stood Crixus, his face drawn and angry as ever. The circles under his eyes told of sleepless nights and no doubt that very one had been spent with Leddicus in attempt to draw out information about Naevia. And if the lines of rage were any indication, he'd had no luck. The words he spoke proved this. "The fucking snake will not allow forked tongue to slip through teeth and reveal Naevia's fate," he said in his low growl. He was pacing as well as he could in the small room, but his footsteps only took him a mere foot in either direction. The man's movements gave the place a claustrophobic feeling. "You must speak to him," Crixus continued, looking at Agron, extending a hand to point at him. He seemed on the verge of madness - a thing the other gladiator could relate to. "You have history. You must loosen his tongue."

_History_. Did Crixus remember that day in the house of Batiatus, when Leddicus had undressed him in front of a house full of guests? When the Roman had ordered Tiberius to stroke him to finish for the entertainment of all? Yes, that was some kind of history. No matter; Crixus looked to the point of tearing his hair from his head so Agron stood and nodded. Sleep would not come to him as it did not come to Crixus, so there was no reason he couldn't try to accomplish what the Gaul could not. And Agron longed to look on that reptilian face again if only for a split second before he beat it into something unrecognizable.

To Agron's surprise, the Gaul reached out and clasped the other man's forearm and, though he didn't meet Agron's gaze to say it, Crixus actually uttered the word, "Gratitude," before disappearing through the door. His voice gave nothing away of how tired he was, but Agron had no doubt the other gladiator was exhausted. They had suffered the same thing, Agron and Crixus, and the German knew how all of this weighed heavy on the heart - but Agron now had the one he loved close and safe. Naevia's safety was still a faraway thing.

Agron glanced down at Tiberius, who still sat on the bedroll. "Will you stay and sleep?" he asked. It would be an excuse, if Tiberius didn't want to see Leddicus but didn't want to say. But no, the Syrian shook his head and climbed to his feet beside Agron, his expression set and determined. Agron admired his courage, but would see it bolstered; the gladiator turned and took Tiberius's face in one calloused but gentle palm. "He will not lay a finger on you again," he promised, looking into those dark eyes.

To Agron's surprise, Tiberius's lips curled in a grin, though there was a darkness to it. "No," he said in reply. "You saw to that when you removed them from his body."

The heap of flesh and bone and torn, expensive fabric was a shadow of the man Agron and Tiberius had both seen only hours before. The Roman now sat on a chair to which he was tethered, a rope around his middle and both ankles. His hands were in his lap, one of them useless and bloody, though Agron could see that the stumps of the man's fingers had been hastily and carelessly cauterized. He bled from new wounds, none of them fatal but all intended to hurt, and all, no doubt, from Crixus's hands. And to think that this man had stood in front of Agron what seemed like a lifetime ago, ordering him to fuck Tiberius for his entertainment. How things had changed.

Except for Leddicus' eyes. When they lifted and fell upon Agron, the gladiator felt the same crawling beneath his skin at the light still in that gaze. Though his body was beaten it was clear Leddicus' spirit remained strong, and it was a thing the gladiator knew would not be easily broken. The Roman's face split in a grin; teeth were missing from his skull and the rest were stained red with blood. "The German savage," Leddicus drawled, his voice thick. "Come for revenge."

Agron approached and made no attempt to keep the disgust from his face. "Come for information," he returned. And how would he extract it, he wondered? Take off the other fingers one by one?

"Ahhh," Leddicus intoned. He tilted his head back and his eyes rolled. "About the bitch—" That word was spat and with it a rivulet of blood streamed slowly down the man's chin. "—with the mark of the domina on her shoulder." When Leddicus tilted his head forward again, that rivulet of blood slid from his chin and into his lap where his hands were bound. Agron watched as it _drip, drip, dripped_ , entranced. "So the Gaul said again and again. And I will give you the same words I gave him." Agron's eyes flickered back to the Roman's. "You will never fucking know."

"Then you will die," Agron growled. He grabbed for the gladius at his hip and drew it, pointing the tip of it at Leddicus. How long he'd waited to see this man's head down the blade of a sword. Too long. Long enough. Agron would bury it into his chest, into the hollow where his heart belonged. He drew back, gathering the strength it would need to run Leddicus through—

—but there was a hand on his arm. With a start, Agron looked back to see Tiberius there. So focused Agron had been on the disgusting creature before him that he'd forgotten the Syrian stood there with him, no doubt feeling the same disgust as he endured. That gentle touch brought the gladiator back to himself and he lowered the sword again, clenching his teeth. It was then that he realized Leddicus was laughing. "I die if I do not tell you," the man said, and there seemed a new madness in his voice, "and I die if I do. I will see you all deprived of desire before I take my last fucking breath."

Then there was no way around it. Leddicus was right; either way, he was for the afterlife. He would never leave these walls while there was life yet in him. And so it seemed news of Naevia would die with the Roman shit. An unfortunate thing.

Agron turned to leave. Leddicus had already endured torture and would not yield, and nor would the threat of death loosen his tongue. The failure would be reported to Crixus and he could decide what to do with the prisoner. The gladiator sheathed his sword and steeled himself, for the Gaul's reaction would no doubt be explosive. But before he could take a step, a soft voice gave him pause. But the words were not being spoken to him.

"Dominus," Tiberius gently said. Agron turned quickly to look at the Syrian and his eyes widened when he saw the man kneeling in front of Leddicus, his hands cupping and lifting the bruised and broken face. His heart was beating fast in his chest. What was this? Did Tiberius still feel some loyalty to his master? Had Leddicus so ensnared him? Agron stepped toward them both, ready to rip Tiberius away and take him to where he would never see this Roman scum again— but then Tiberius turned and looked at him. And in that quick glance was a level assurance before those dark eyes turned to something pleading and turned back toward Leddicus.

"I told them of how good you were to me," Tiberius said. His voice sounded so sweet, so sincere, and he spoke to Leddicus with the reverence of a slave for his dominus. "They will let you live if you only tell them of the woman's fate." Leddicus was looking at Tiberius and there was, perhaps, a flicker of hope in them. "They only want to find her," Tiberius continued, his voice hushed. He leaned closer to the other man. "When they know where she is, they will leave these walls and you within them." A pause, and Tiberius lightly stroked his former master's cheekbones with the pads of his thumbs so very affectionately. "And me," he added finally, and in his voice there were such promises. So lovely and saccharine that even Agron almost believed it.

Perhaps Leddicus was tired. Perhaps his mind wasn't quite right after what he'd endured. Perhaps he trusted Tiberius, who had been his slave for years upon years. Whatever the reason, the Roman took Tiberius's words as truth. This time, when Leddicus spoke, it was in the tone of a man broken. The voice did not coil like a snake. "Mines," he whispered. His lips, covered in blood, stuck together on the word.

Agron clenched his teeth and looked away. The fucking mines. A maze of underground tunnels in which even the keenest of men would find himself lost. Catacombs impossible to escape. A place that would guarantee death to any that wished to escape. This is where Naevia was. It might have been easier stealing her from the grasp of Jupiter himself.

When the gladiator's gaze returned to the two other men, Tiberius was nodding. He stood, got up from his knees, and still held Leddicus' face in his hands. The Roman now tilted his head back to look at his former slave, that hope still in his eyes. False hope. Slowly, Tiberius turned from him, hands now stained with red falling to his sides. But they were not idle for long. The Syrian approached Agron and wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his sword, pulling it from its sheath. And with gladius in hand, he returned to stand in front of his dominus again. That was when the hope in Leddicus' eyes first turned to rage and then, soon after, fear. "You f—" was all that passed the Roman's lips before he was silenced.

Tiberius pressed the tip of the sword against Leddicus' throat. The skin dimpled beneath it, resisting the cold steel, but soon gave way. Slowly, the blade slid forward, cutting easily through the man's flesh, and Leddicus's eyes widened. From his mouth came a choking sound, blood spilling from those lips anew, and no doubt he would have screamed if he'd been able to. But it was all over when, with one final thrust, Tiberius broke through the spine and ended the man's life. His body slumped, lifeless but held up by the ropes that bound him to the chair. Leddicus was dead, and by the hand of his own servant. Tiberius pulled the sword back, sliding it from the Roman's throat, and it hung at his side, blood dripping steadily from the point.

Agron stepped forward and, from behind Tiberius, slid his hand over the one holding the gladius. Gently, he took the weapon from the other man, and when Tiberius turned to look at him, nodded only once. The Syrian needed to words of congratulation. He needed no celebration, no smile or adulation. No, he would need to take this - his first kill - inside of him in silence, and there it would remain forever.

But they would find no silence, although Leddicus lay dead before them. No, there was a scream of unbridled rage from another corner of the room when through the doorway Crixus barreled. " _Agron!_ " He collided with the German, tearing him away from Tiberius, and their two bodies slammed into the far wall, Agron pressed against it. " _You sent him to the afterlife,_ " the Gaul screamed, " _when he was the only one who knew of Naevia's fate!_ " Crixus had his forearm pressed against Agron's throat, cutting off his breathing and his voice. The sword that had killed Leddicus clattered as it hit the ground and Agron lifted his hands to shove the other gladiator away from him. There, against the wall, he bent slightly to catch his breath, and then raised eyes flashing with anger to look at Crixus.

"Naevia is—" he started, but cut himself off. The mines, he reminded himself. The mines from which no man nor woman could ever hope to return. And if Crixus knew - if he knew Naevia was alive, it wouldn't matter where she was held or how impossible it would be to see her freed; he would go after her regardless. It would lead him and countless others to death. Better he think her dead than risk that. Better to leave a woman no doubt broken beyond repair to her fate than to see her to the arms of a man that cannot fix her. ' _Naevia is dead,_ ' he should have said. It was there dangling from his lips.

He saw Tiberius from the corner of his eye. If Agron were in Crixus's place - if Tiberius were in the mines and the only hope to ever see him again was to venture into them and face certain death… the choice was clear. Agron would face it. He would face a thousand deaths to see the Syrian's face one last time, to touch his hand or taste his lips or have those dark eyes rest upon him. Would he deny Crixus this chance to see Naevia again? Could he?

"Naevia is in the mines," Agron said. The look that passed over the other gladiator's face was a mixture of hope and horror, of relief and terror and determination all in one. In that moment Agron knew. They were to the mines and to their doom. And Crixus would lead them there.

In the corner of the room, the chair tipped over and Leddicus's body fell bleeding to the floor.


	10. Chapter 10

It was strange to see the home of his former master so overrun by the men that had liberated it. Tiberius had grown up in the house and had only known it filled to the brim with slaves demure and obedient, with guests high-born and upperclass. Now there were gladiators within the walls, freed warriors that talked and fucked more loudly than Tiberius had ever thought possible. It was a shock to him, but one he found himself adjusting to. And it was an adjustment made easier with Agron by his side. Agron, a man the former body slave would never have imagined seeing again, if only because Leddicus had convinced him otherwise. But now Leddicus was dead and Agron was near, so perhaps the Roman had given the gladiator less credit than he'd deserved. Perhaps Leddicus had, given Tiberius less credit, too.

Dawn broke quickly after the dominus' body had fallen dead onto the stone floor. As soon as the sun had started to peek over the horizon, all had been roused from sleep and summoned into the large courtyard at the center of the house. Carved pillars surrounded a garden once carefully tended, though now its caretakers had left it to the hands of countless others who stripped it of its bulbs and root vegetables, who trampled its carefully lain paths and crushed its fragile flowers underfoot. The high grass within remained and was untouched, though, ever flourishing in the sunlight that streamed down from the open sky above.

It was amongst that tall grass that Spartacus stood, turning slowly to look at all that had gathered around him. The rebellion's numbers had increased greatly with the liberation of Leddicus's house. Just as it was odd to see gladiators among them, Tiberius found it strange to gaze upon the faces of those who had served in this house with him, their slave collars gone from their necks and a different look to them. Some were glad for the newfound freedom, eyes alight with it, but there were some that were confused. There were some whose now idle hands twisted with nothing to do. These were the men and women who, like Tiberius himself, had never known the feeling of freedom and who now felt without purpose, having no one to serve. They were the ones who looked most intently at Spartacus, as if expecting him to give them the orders they so craved.

Tiberius, too, watched on as the rebellion's leader addressed his followers new and old. "We had plans to move for Vesuvius," he said, eyes scanning the crowd. "To set up camp there and free more people from slavery. But Crixus—" All eyes turned to the Gaul, who stood behind Spartacus. "—means to go to the mines and have his woman returned to loving embrace." All were still. Tension was in the air before Spartacus spoke again. "I stand with him," the Thracian said, "and will see Naevia from bondage." At that, the silence was broken by chatter, some confused and some defiant and some, mostly from Crixus' kin, agreeable. Tiberius glanced to Agron, who stood beside him. In the brief time before dawn, the gladiator had confessed to Tiberius that he had struggled with telling Crixus of Naevia's fate. That he thought it would have been easier to lie and tell the man she was dead so they could all avoid the suicide mission to the mines. That conflict showed on his face then. Tiberius reached out and touched his hand.

"The mines?" one of the gladiators said, incredulous. Tiberius didn't know his name, but he was blond and wielded an axe. "To stand with Crixus is to fucking fall with him, then." There were murmurs of agreement throughout the crowd. The gladiator that had spoken stepped forward now, and all paid attention to him. "No one escapes the mines. It would be easier to slit our throats now than to make attempt on them." Those that shared the same opinion became more vocal. The blond raised voice one more time. "And what of those who don't wish to die for some whore?"

It was the wrong choice of words. Suddenly, Crixus lunged forward and tackled the other gladiator to the ground, though the impact was softened by the high grass that surrounded them. Agron was gone from Tiberius's side and, as Spartacus pulled the Gaul off the other man, Agron stood between them. With one hand pressed against the blond gladiator's chest, Agron held him back. And, to the apparent surprise of most others, the German spoke on Crixus's behalf. "She is more than a whore," Agron said, "and you would do well to hold your tongue or find it removed from mouth." The Gaul stopped his struggle against Spartacus and only stared at the blond gladiator, his breathing heavy. Agron continued to speak. "Those who do not wish to venture into the mines can follow Donar to Vesuvius. Those who would see Naevia freed can come with us." _Us_ , he'd said. And so bound himself to the mission.

Donar - who Tiberius assumed was the axe-wielding gladiator - looked at Agron, scoffed, and shook his head. With that, he turned to walk from the courtyard. Others followed; most were slaves from Tiberius's own house, who no doubt feared the mines more than any gladiator. Some were those that had been in the ludus with Spartacus and the rest. Most that stayed behind were Crixus's kin, men from Gallia. Tiberius looked to Agron and found that the man was looking back at him - and Agron nodded his head.

Was that his assent for Tiberius to follow the rest to Vesuvius? Or perhaps an order to do so. But Tiberius would not be separated from Agron again. More than that, he could be useful. He wasn't weak; he would not flee from the mines because some thought that the tunnels would trap him there. "I accompanied my dominus to the mines once," he said, lifting his voice. Spartacus, Crixus, and the others turned toward him. He met the eyes of Crixus if only to avoid Agron's gaze, which the former slave knew would be fixed upon him. "I may be of some aid."

"Well received," the Gaul said with a nod. So now Tiberius committed himself to this mission just as Agron had. And when the rest in the courtyard dispersed, off to prepare for the mission to the mines, no doubt, Tiberius and the gladiator were left alone. The Syrian still looked anywhere but at Agron, but that didn't stop the man from approaching and addressing him.

"You cannot go to the mines," Agron said, now standing before Tiberius. The gladiator reached out and gently cupped Tiberius's face in his hand, and only then did the former slave shift his gaze to meet the other's. What he saw in those green eyes surprised him. He'd expected anger, perhaps. Disappointment. Defiance. But not this desperation. From what sadness did that come? "You _cannot_. It is as sure a death as giving yourself to the Roman army."

Tiberius drew his eyebrows together. "Are you not going?" he asked then, and the way Agron's gaze skirted away was an answer in itself. "Then so am I." He considered the matter settled. As if he would run to Vesuvius with the rest with the knowledge that Agron likely wouldn't come back from the mines. Agron was all he had left in the world; Tiberius would be leaving this house, would be leaving the only life he knew, and he would do so with the gladiator at his side.

Though Tiberius was decided, Agron still argued. His free hand joined the other in holding the Syrian's face and he leaned forward. There was wildness in his eyes. "I will not watch you fall," he said, voice low, "not as I watched Du—" But he cut himself off and clenched his jaw, nostrils flaring, as though it took great effort to hold back what was inside of him. As if Tiberius hadn't realized that Agron had suffered something. It had been in the other man's face since the moment they'd been reunited, no matter how Agron tried to hide it. Only hours ago Tiberius had asked him what so weighed upon him, what made his brow buckle when he thought the Syrian couldn't see him, but there had been no answer. Tiberius sought one again.

"Not as you watched… what?" the Syrian asked. And as he looked on, he was witness to Agron steeling himself, building walls of protection from what must have been a painful memory. Tiberius could see those walls as they went up stone by stone. How he wanted to be part of that foundation. He had no desire to break down the defense but rather wanted to be something that strengthened it. He wanted to be some of the reason this memory didn't consume Agron, didn't take him over and make him hurt. But Tiberius could only be that if the gladiator shared with him what was in his heart. The Syrian leaned into the hands still cupping his face and caught Agron's eye. "If you are to go to the mines and never leave them, I would have you do so unburdened."

It took a moment for Agron to reply. He was still for some time and seemed to be searching Tiberius's face, though for what, the man had no idea. He allowed it to happen, though, and his patience paid off. Soon, Agron dropped his hands to take one of Tiberius's. "Come," he said gently, "and I will reveal all. Then we say goodbye to this place forever." And so Agron pulled Tiberius by the hand and needed no guidance to find the former slave's old room, where they'd tried to sleep the night before with little success. It was private, and privacy was what the two needed in that moment. Who knew when they would find some again. Who knew _if_ they would.

The two sat on the floor, leaning against the wall. Tiberius tilted his head back and then turned to look at Agron, though the gladiator stared intently at the floor. There was silence between them for some time and though the Syrian wanted to break it, to urge Agron to speak, he thought it better to let the other man come to it in his own time, though it wouldn't be long before they were both off to the mines with the rest that had volunteered to go. "Will you be sad to leave here?" Agron asked suddenly. He had lifted his head and was looking around Tiberius's small room.

The former slave's eyes followed the same path. "No," he said, voice low. "I will not." There had been a time where he'd thought his life… good. And certainly it had been better than most slave's lives. But Agron had given him a taste of all he'd been missing. More than that, the gladiator had brought forth from Leddicus the man he truly was, and that had been an ugly thing to witness. An ugly thing to fall victim to. Tiberius was happy for the Roman's death and would be happy to step foot from his villa. Happy to leave it all behind him. Though he still struggled with the concept of freedom, he preferred it already to the life he'd had, and that largely had to do with the man sitting by him in that moment.

"What life did you live," Agron continued, "before you were slave to Leddicus?" This was not the conversation Tiberius had expected. Agron should have been confessing things to _him_ , not the other way around, but the gladiator had promiesd to reveal all. So Tiberius would simply have to be patient.

And he would have to call forth memories that had not been touched in a very long time. "I do not remember much," he said, brow furrowing as he went further and further back into the dark recesses of his mind that had long since been forgotten. "Nothing about my life in Assyria. I do remember a brother." Though barely. He remembered a boy older than him with the same dark hair and eyes and a quick smile. More confident than Tiberius's own. Easier than his own. The Syrian blinked and shook his head, unsure of where this image had come from. He had no context for it.

"A brother," Agron repeated, and Tiberius immediately looked back at the man. His tone of voice in saying those two short, simple words, had been heartbreaking. There was misery behind them. And even before Agron continued and confessed what he'd so long kept internal, Tiberius knew. He simply knew. "I too had a brother." The gladiator turned his head and met Tiberius's gaze, and never had the Syrian seen anything so heart-rending as the green of Agron's eyes covered in a sheen of tears. How many had already fallen for this brother? Not enough. That much was obvious. Not enough.

"No longer?" Tiberius whispered.

Agron held the Syrian's gaze, unblinking, and shook his head. "He was struck down by the Romans," the gladiator said. And this wound, Tiberius could tell, was a recent one. Perhaps it had happened when the slaves had risen up against Batiatus. Not so long ago, and Agron still felt the tragic weight of it. Tiberius had been young when he'd been separated from his family; he hadn't had the time to love them as Agron had had the time to love his brother. The Syrian couldn't imagine the pain that came with losing someone so close, so dear. It was something he'd never suffered before.

"Struck down," Tiberius then said, taking Agron's hand and holding it tightly, "when he bravely turned sword against them." It was a death worthy of a gladiator, was it not? Though Tiberius knew nothing of glory or of honor. But for a man that craved freedom, what better way to die than in the pursuit of it? Better than dying a slave, a piece of the Romans' games.

The fingers intertwined with Tiberius's own tightened, and so did Agron's lips, for a brief moment. And then they parted, and he spoke again. "As you shall one day," he said. "Perhaps this one, when we venture into the mines." So Agron had surrendered to what Tiberius wanted, and it was better that way, because the Syrian would have fought tooth-and-nail until he won. No way would he have gone to Vesuvius when he could have been of aid in the mines. No matter that it may have meant death for the both of them. He would rather face that death than live the rest of this new life without Agron.

"Perhaps," Tiberius returned gently. "And should we fall within the tunnels, we will meet your brother in the afterlife." It was the only comfort he could give the other man, and it seemed to work. There was even the slightest smile on Agron's lips, though it disappeared as quickly as it had shown itself. Suddenly, the gladiator stood, and with his grip on Tiberius's hand lifted the Syrian so that they were both on their feet. And if Tiberius wasn't mistaken, it seemed Agron was a bit lighter, his shoulders a bit less burdened. The tragedy of losing his brother would never be gone from him entirely, but if Tiberius had helped at least in some small part ease the pain of it, he was glad.

It was time for them to help in preparations for the mines, no doubt. But before they left, Agron pulled Tiberius near and brushed a kiss over his lips. Just a gentle one, so soft it was barely there - but Tiberius would have none of it. No, he reached up and pulled the gladiator into a kiss deeper than that, if only so he could bring the taste of it with him into the mines. Agron responded in kind, wrapping his arms around Tiberius and tugging him closer, and for a moment they were both lost in it. There was no villa around them, no mission looming over them, no call to the afterlife coming closer and closer. But they couldn't stay lost forever. No, they had to come back to earth eventually.

And so they did, lips parting. Tiberius's eyes remained closed for a moment and he savored what lingered of the kiss, a grin curling his lips. He felt fingers brush over his smile, and then Agron took a step away from him, leaving him wanting. "Is there anything you would take with you?" he asked, and when Tiberius opened his eyes the gladiator was looking around his room. It was a bare thing with not enough room for anything but a bedroll and a table, and no hiding places for any personal things that might belong to the former slave.

Only one thing came to mind. The vial that Tiberius had held onto for so very long when he'd been apart from Agron. But even that precious thing had been tainted by Leddicus' knowledge of it. Better to leave it all behind and start anew, if there was a life after the mines. "Nothing," Tiberius answered firmly, shaking his head. Agron nodded once, and then started walking from the room. The Syrian followed.

But right before Tiberius passed the threshold, for the last time exiting the room he'd called his own for years upon years, Agron stopped and turned to look at him. "You were not Tiberius before this house," he said. "In Assyria, you had a different name."

Tiberius's brows drew together and, for a moment, he looked confused. So long had he been called 'Tiberius', the name his Roman master had given him upon entering servitude, stripping of his identity as a Syrian. So long had it been that, for a moment, he was afraid he wouldn't be able to remember the name he'd had as a child. The name his parents had given him. The name that had echoed in the back of his mind come from the mouth that held a quick and easy smile, quicker than his own. Tiberius lifted his dark eyes to Agron's and in the former slave's gaze was gratitude. Because now he would be able to strip from himself the person he'd been underneath this roof and beneath Leddicus' thumb. Now he would be a free man by the other man's side without the ghost of his former dominus clinging to him. "My brother called me Nasir," he said, and the name sounded foreign to his ears, felt foreign on his tongue.

"Nasir," the gladiator repeated, nodding. From Agron's lips, the name was the sweetest thing Tiberius - the sweetest thing _Nasir_ \- had ever heard.


End file.
